I'm an ordinary clerk in the municipal archives department, reassigned to sort through old files on Sublevel 17. There was nothing down there except a book called Daily Rules and a gray metal cabinet that never spoke.
I noticed something was wrong on my first day. The handbook changed its own contents. Yesterday it said, "No staying late," but today it said, "Anyone staying late must sign in." The gray cabinet seeped water every four seconds, like a heartbeat. Someone was always turning pages deep in the corridor, but I never saw anyone.
I began seeing traces of shadows in the rules. Someone had changed them, more than once. Following those shadows, I discovered another level below. Someone was trapped there. For thirty years, he had used a pencil to write to me: "Don't come down."
But the rules have already learned me. They've learned how I write dates. My voice may be next. Then they can become me and live in my place.
I have only one chance. Before that happens, I have to write a new version of the rules for them, one they can't rewrite unilaterally.
The only problem is that I've already forgotten what day it is. Every day, a woman comes down from the surface just to tell me, "It's Monday today."
"Will you come again tomorrow?"
"Yes. If you write it, I'll come."
Her footsteps cross the terrazzo floor of D-17, soft and light, but each one reminds me that today isn't over yet.
I'm the fourth person to go down. But I may be the last one who still remembers their own name.
