ECHOBURN

The streets below shimmered in neat ribbons of light — blue from the mag-rail lines, orange from market signs, green from the apartment status towers. Inside the 33rd-floor unit, everything smelled like ginger tea and polished wood. Quiet. Comfortable.

The boy stepped in through the front door, shoes scuffed, hoodie damp, the straps of his bag creaking with weight.

"You're late," his mother called from the kitchen. She wasn't scolding — more like marking time.

"Lost track," he muttered, setting the bag down gently.

His younger sister, Emi, was at the table, fingers glowing faintly as she adjusted a floating array of pins and crystal nodes. Some kind of tactile focus exercise. Probably prep for her assessment.

She didn't look up. "You missed dinner."

"I'll heat something later."

In the hallway, framed photos tracked the lives of children who weren't him. His older sister — elegant in a navy Ascend Academy uniform, shaking hands with some council rep. Another one: Emi winning a regional trial last year, holding a glowing certificate half her size.

The boy passed them silently, entered his room, and locked the door.

The room was clean. Tidy, even. Big enough for a bed, a desk, and the shelves full of things he didn't quite need. He slid the zipper of his bag open and pulled out the book — the one he'd found wedged behind a rusted vent cover deep beneath the city's old rail line.

It was heavy, wrapped in black cloth. He placed it on his desk and slowly undid the cloth. Leather, cracked but intact. Unlabeled. No markings on the cover. No latch, no lock. Just strange, oily stitching along the spine.

He didn't open it.

He didn't know why.

Instead, he changed clothes, dropped onto his bed, and fell asleep with the light on.

The next morning

The boy cut through the quieter parts of downtown, passing closed cafés and forgotten bookstores until he found the narrow alley behind the antiques district. His destination was a cramped corner shop with a buzzed-out neon sign that read Yamada Relics.

Inside, shelves buckled with clutter — brass compasses, porcelain masks, artificial bones, incense jars, holograms of things no one needed.

Yamada himself was sipping iced tea behind a counter stacked with faulty drones and cracked VR lenses.

"You're the kid from the tech pit," the man said without looking up. "Here to trade?"

He pulled the book from his bag and placed it on the counter. "Found it last night."

Yamada finally looked. He raised an eyebrow, wiped his hands, and gently turned the cover open.

Blank pages. Faint texture. Symbols that shimmered then vanished when the angle changed.

"Huh," the man said. "Looks handmade. You get this from a burial zone?"

"Old tunnel near Sector B. No markings."

"No barcode, no publisher, no certs. Doesn't scan. I'll give you two thousand for the leather."

"That's it?"

"You're lucky I'm charging you to get rid of it. Could be cursed, for all I know."

The boy hesitated. He stared at the book, then pulled it back.

The dealer shrugged. "Suit yourself."

He scribbled something in a ledger. "Need your name for the no-sale record."

"…Aoto."

Yamada looked up, pen paused. "No family tag?"

"Just Aoto."

The pen moved again. The page flipped. The moment passed.

That night

Dinner was warm. His mother talked about garden upgrades. Emi complained about the new focus drills. Somewhere in the conversation, Aoto blinked — and found the plates already cleared.

"…Wait, what day is it?"

His mother tilted her head. "Tuesday. You okay?"

He nodded, stood, excused himself. His legs felt like they weren't entirely under his control.

In his room, he unwrapped the book again and opened it, determined to prove something to himself.

Still blank.

Still silent.

He sat there for twenty minutes. Then closed it, left it on his desk, and crawled into bed.

3:14 a.m.

His eyes snapped open.

The lights were off. The window hummed with city noise.

The book was on his chest, open.

One page. Just one.

Words, faint and silver:

You still can.

Aoto stared at it.

The room's ceiling light flickered once, then held steady.

He slowly reached out.

Threw the book in the trash,and fell back to slumber.