The Archive.
The blizzard still showed no signs of stopping.
Outside the main doors, the snowflakes falling from the leaden sky were abnormally large. The sounds of commotion from the direction of the port were distorted as they drifted through the howling wind and snow; occasional shrill sirens echoed briefly before being instantly swallowed by the biting, freezing wind.
“Bang.”
The main doors of the Archive were suddenly pushed open, allowing the wind and snow to gust through the gap.
A few scribes sitting in the lobby shrank their necks against the cold draft and instinctively turned their heads to look.
A tall, slender figure walked in slowly.
His long black trench coat looked surprisingly dry despite the snowstorm, and his entire appearance was clean and proper.
It wasn't until he closed the door behind him that the bright light of the kerosene lamps in the lobby glinted off his cuffs.
Clinging to the black woolen edges of his cuffs and hem were several drops of thick, viscous blood that had already begun to blacken and dry.
The blood gave off a faint metallic scent, reminiscent of the rust produced when raw iron is violently scraped.
Adrian raised his right hand, clad in a white woolen glove, and unhurriedly pulled the collar of his trench coat higher.
His gaze swept across the mountain of yellowed files piled in the lobby, showing neither hesitation nor any emotional fluctuation.
The air in the lobby seemed to chill degree by degree with every step he took.
“Sir, may I ask who you are looking for...” a young registrar boldly stood up, but his voice caught in his throat the moment he met Adrian's cold, deep grey eyes hidden behind his spectacles.
Adrian did not stop.
He did not even spare the registrar a glance, walking straight toward the wooden door on the second floor that bore a brass plaque reading “Director's Office.”
Only when his figure vanished around the corner did the scribes in the lobby let out a long sigh of relief.
“Who is that guy?”
“He looks like a teacher.”
“The director's friend? A VIP?”
...
The door to the director's office on the second floor was ajar.
Morton was sitting behind his desk, flipping through documents, his quill scratching softly against the paper.
The footsteps stopped outside the door.
Without even raising his head, he simply said in a calm tone,
“The door is unlocked.”
Adrian pushed the door open and walked in.
Morton finally put down his pen, looked up, and cast a glance at him.
The two stared at each other for a few seconds, neither of them speaking first.
After a moment, Morton pointed to the chair opposite his desk.
“Have a seat.”
Adrian nodded slightly, pulled back the chair, and sat down.
Morton turned his head toward the door.
“Claire.”
Moments later, a young woman with neat, short hair walked in. She wore the dark grey uniform of the Archive and carried herself with a professional air, holding a stack of freshly sorted newspaper clippings in her arms.
“Director.”
“Brew two cups of tea.” Morton paused, then added, “Or coffee.”
Claire's gaze lingered on the black bloodstains on Adrian's cuffs for half a second. A trace of confusion flashed in her eyes, but she didn't ask any questions, merely bowing slightly.
“Yes, Director.”
The office fell silent once more.
The charcoal in the stove crackled softly, letting out faint popping sounds.
Claire entered with a tray and gently set down two cups of coffee. Sensing the strange atmosphere in the room, she asked no questions and quietly withdrew.
Adrian didn't touch the cup in front of him. He simply stared at Morton in silence. Only after a long while did he slowly speak:
“The White Door.”
“How on earth did you manage that?”
The office lapsed into a brief silence.
Morton slowly rotated the handle of his cup.
“Manage what?”
Adrian stared at him.
“Stop pretending.”
“The White Door has never appeared in reality. For hundreds of years, countless scholars could only approach it in their dreams. No one has ever been able to bring it out.”
“And today, it appeared in East Port.”
“Right here in reality.”
Morton gently blew away the steam rising from his coffee, the smile on his face completely unchanged.
“Mr. Adrian, aren't you overestimating me? I'm just an old man who manages archives.”
Adrian slowly shook his head.
“Others might not know, but I do.”
“That wasn't an illusion, a ritual projection, or a reflection.”
“It truly descended into reality.”
“Someone... stitched dream and reality together.”
The office fell silent once more.
Outside the window, the wind and snow whistled shrilly.
Morton remained silent for a moment, then suddenly smiled:
“Dreams and reality. Who says they must be kept separate?”
Adrian's pupils contracted slightly.
“So, it really was you.”
Yet Morton acted as if he hadn't heard a thing, speaking slowly:
“When I was young, I always believed a dream was just a dream. Later, after sorting through archives for so long, I realized that many things cannot be explained during the day and can only be left for the night.”
“Over time, I could no longer tell who had walked into whose world.”
Adrian looked at him coldly:
“You didn't answer my question.”
Morton gently set down his coffee:
“Because I don't know the answer either. I just gave it a random try.”
Adrian slowly stood up.
“The Door does not appear on its own, nor does it actively embrace reality.”
“Someone changed the rules, or... someone exploited them.”
Morton gave a soft chuckle:
“Rules? After organizing archives for a lifetime, I've come to feel more and more that so-called rules only exist because the majority of people believe they do.”
The two fell silent once more.
The shadows of the two old foxes overlapped on the wall, flickering slightly with the firelight.
After a long time, Adrian let out a soft sigh:
“Do you know? The School of Lantern has spent hundreds of years just to find a relatively stable way to access the White Door, yet no one has ever been able to bring the Door out.”
“Today, you made dreams step into reality. This is far more dangerous than any ascension ritual.”
Morton didn't turn around, merely gazing slowly out the window.
The blizzard still blanketed the entirety of East Port.
His voice was so quiet it was almost inaudible:
“Dangerous? I think it's just that someone has finally knocked open a door that had been shut for far too long.”
Adrian stared at his back, ultimately choosing not to ask further.
For he knew that this old man would not reveal anything more.
He pulled his clean white woolen glove back on, adjusted his trench coat, and walked toward the office door.
The moment his hand gripped the brass handle, he paused and said quietly,
“If dreams truly begin to enter reality, then from now on, everyone will dream the same dream.”
Morton did not look back, only chuckling softly:
“Perhaps reality was already the greatest dream of all.”
Adrian pushed the door open and left.
The sound of his leather shoes stepping on the marble floor gradually faded into the distance.
The office fell silent once more.
Morton stared at the falling snow outside the window, remaining silent for a long time.
Until Claire knocked gently on the door:
“Director, should I see the guest out?”
Morton withdrew his gaze, returning to his usual gentle, elderly demeanor as he waved his hand:
“No need. Let him go.”
“And... if this gentleman comes again in the future, don't stop him. Bring him straight in.”
“I believe we will meet again.”
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