Chapter 4: Of Songs and Townsfolk -PART 6 -END

I sighed. I could only hope this encounter wouldn’t cause us more trouble in the long run. Mi Fan quickly let go of my hand and darted off to investigate the next room, as was becoming her habit. I lingered for a few more seconds, staring at the painting of Lassi and her father. The Mahayans... In one way or another, that family had changed the course of history. Only those who witnessed history firsthand would understand how wrong Lassi had been in her ambitions.

"All clear, mr. Ma... Mimic," the little one called from the other room.

I began to walk slowly through the lobby, observing the walls adorned with tapestries of fleur-de-lis and serpents winding through the motifs. The columns, beautifully carved with intricate designs, seemed to whisper old stories. And ahead of me, a lone white door, beckoning me to cross it.

Upon entering, I found myself in what they called an archive, though it was more like a full-fledged library. Massive shelves, overflowing with books that seemed forgotten by time. That unmistakable smell of old paper, the kind that envelops you and makes you think of stories sleeping under layers of dust.

The room was bathed in a purple hue, with reddish lights that gave the space an almost theatrical air. As if someone had read a noir novel and decided to transform the room into a secret hideaway.

I couldn’t help but laugh quietly as I walked between the tall shelves, running my hand along the spines of the books. There was something curious about the atmosphere, something that seemed designed for a mystery, as if the room itself knew it held secrets.

Between the shelves, the walls displayed paintings of the transcontinental trains, monuments to a glorious past. There were images of the town’s construction, of the roundhouse... and, of course, of Lassi. In one, she was holding a small child in her arms, posing as if the portrait of the perfect mother were necessary, though I knew well that façade was just another mask. Even she had to pretend to be a good mother once in a while, I suppose.

Mi Fan ran over to me and took my hand again. I think what she was trying to do was protect me from my own dark thoughts. We didn’t need her for that, but the gesture was appreciated.

"Well, Mi Fan, there must be something here about the town. If I’m going to understand why I was summoned here, maybe this room holds the answers," I said, looking at the rows of books and the dense air around us.

"And the bear. Answers about the bear," she added, gripping my hand a little tighter.

"Yes, right, the bear too. We need to solve that mystery."

The little lady looked at me, smiling in a way that almost made me forget we were dragging a ball of iron behind us.

"No matter how much yoga you practice, that ball isn’t going to help you escape the town, Mr Mimic."

I smiled to myself. The truth was, I could leave whenever I wanted, with or without the ball. It wouldn’t be hard. But I didn’t want to explain that little detail to Mi Fan, not when she was finally showing a bit more emotion.

Sometimes, we can be sentimental too.

We walked around the place. Everything was strangely clean, almost impeccable, though the smell of old books still lingered in the air, that mix of paper and time that never quite disappears. Despite the age of the tomes, there wasn’t a speck of dust in any corner. Mi Fan and I passed by some reading tables, and in one corner, we discovered a record player.

The device looked so out of place that it brought a smile to my face. Before cassettes or compact discs existed, the Mahayans had invested millions in these devices. A fine needle running over grooves to unearth sounds from the past. It had always been like that with our family, always trying to stay ahead of the curve... even when the technology wasn’t quite ready.

I approached the record player, its parts somewhat rusted but still perfectly functional—enough to keep spinning in this town trapped in its own time. In the center, a record with a yellowed label read: Subtleties and Oddities #26.

I smiled, with an ironic curiosity, and pressed play.

The needle fell onto the vinyl with a soft, familiar crackle, but what we heard next chilled my blood.

The song emerged from the speakers with an unsettling sound, almost like a whisper. Yet the words were sharp, resonating in the air with a melody as cryptic as it was disturbing:

"Time is a river that won’t return,

Cycles of light begin to burn.

The end of days is drawing near,

Between laughter, applause, all disappear."

I felt a shiver run down my spine, as if the sound itself had scratched something deep inside me. Mi Fan looked at me, her ears tense, clearly uncomfortable. Her tail stopped moving, a clear sign that something in that melody was affecting her too.

"Hours stretch, minutes slip,

The wheel turns, never looking back.

Who will count the final hours,

When the sun finally fades to black?"

Each line repeated in my mind, crashing like waves that erase footprints in the sand. We had always believed that time flowed, unchanging, but this song... this suggested something else. The end, that idea that always seemed like a distant threat, now felt too close. And the worst part was the resonance of those words.

It was as if that song came from somewhere familiar, as if we had already heard it before, beyond the dancer from last night. In another time. In another place. As if this moment had been written long, long ago.

“Mr. Ma... Mimic... What is this?” Mi Fan asked, her voice quieter than usual.

What was this? I stayed silent for a moment, listening to the last whisper of the song fade away into the air, leaving behind a heavy emptiness. We didn’t know the answer.

“Something that shouldn’t be here,” I murmured, feeling that this melody would be hard to forget.