Frames of Liora: 2 Liora and the Library of Shifting Pages

In the heart of a city whose streets twisted like rivers, there stood a library that defied expectation. Its walls were tall and pale, its windows narrow. Yet the most remarkable thing was not the building itself — it was the books.

Each book had a mind of its own. Words rearranged themselves when read; paragraphs migrated from one page to another; chapters appeared and vanished as if they remembered a different reader. Scholars came daily, determined to capture a “definitive edition,” yet the library refused. Every attempt to bind the pages into a single sequence only produced contradictions: the same story told differently depending on who read it, when, and from which angle.

Liora entered quietly, brushing dust from her sleeves. She picked up a thin volume bound in deep green leather. The first page described a market bustling in sunlight; the next page narrated a rainstorm in the same market, shadows lengthening impossibly. She frowned, but before she could question it, the paragraphs shifted again.

She read on, letting her eyes follow the flow. One chapter described a baker kneading dough, while another showed a child stealing a loaf. Both events were happening — and yet, they could not be reconciled into one timeline. The library did not intend deception; it was only reflecting the multiplicity of actualisation.

Other visitors crowded the aisles, whispering in frustration. One man demanded, “Which is true? Which story actually happened?”

Liora smiled. “All of them,” she said softly. “But none of them happened together.”

She began to leave, then paused. On a low shelf, she saw a book with no cover. Its pages were blank, yet she sensed that they contained everything. She opened it, and words appeared in response to her touch: events flowing, shifting, interacting, yet never converging. The book was alive in her frame alone.

When she stepped outside, she carried the blank book under her arm. The scholars gaped. Liora did not explain. She knew that the library had no need of reconciliation; it thrived in local coherence, not global integration. And as she walked through the twisting streets, she felt the stories ripple through her hands, each one true — in its own place, in its own time, and in her own frame.