The Tower Without Light:

The town skyline glittered with neon and glass, but one constructing stood aside. in the dead of night, with out fail, its lighting fixtures died. ground with the aid of floor, window by way of window, the tower sank into blackness at the same time as the relaxation of the city pulsed with existence.

No person knew why.

The electricity organization denied outages. The tenants claimed the building turned into empty. yet each night, the blackout returned, swallowing the tower whole. Tiela had heard the rumors for years. some stated the tower changed into cursed. Others whispered it changed into a memorial, a place wherein the beyond refused to permit pass. but curiosity gnawed at her. She turned into a journalist, and silence was her enemy.

So one night, she went inside.

The lobby become pristine, marble flooring gleaming under chandeliers. protection cameras blinked pink, however no guards were present. The elevator doors stood open, ready.

She pressed the button for the pinnacle floor. The elevator hummed, growing easily. but halfway up, the lights flickered. The hum faltered.

Nighttime had arrived.

The elevator stopped. Darkness swallowed her. Her cellphone’s flashlight reduce via the black. The doors slid open to show a hall coated with places of work. Papers littered the floor, desks stood deserted, and the air smelled of dust and some thing metallic.

She improved. The silence pressed towards her ears, heavy and deliberate. Why had the constructing been abandoned? Why did the blackout manifest best at nighttime?

A door creaked open. She froze.

Inside the workplace, a table lamp flickered to lifestyles. at the desk lay a notebook, its pages yellowed. She opened it. the primary line examine: “we're the ones who in no way left.”

Her breath caught. She grew to become the web page.

“The blackout isn't electricity. it is reminiscence.” The hall groaned. Footsteps echoed, although nobody was seen. Shadows stretched across the walls, lengthy and distorted. She whispered into the silence: “who're you?” The notebook answered, phrases bleeding into the paper as though written by using unseen arms: “we are the forgotten. We wait inside the darkish.”

Her pulse raced. She desired to run, however the elevator had vanished. most effective the corridor remained, stretching longer than before.

She moved deeper into the tower. every office revealed extra notebooks, every filled with testimonies of individuals who had worked there—names, dates, tragedies. a few talked about injuries, others of secrets buried with the aid of the company.

The blackout become now not random. It became ritual. The silence grew heavier. The partitions appeared to breathe. She realized then: the tower become now not haunted by using ghosts. It changed into haunted by way of silence itself—the silence of voices in no way spoken, testimonies erased, lives forgotten.

A unexpected crash echoed from the stairwell. She ran toward it, her flashlight trembling. the steps spiraled upward, infinite. She climbed, every step heavier than the final. at the pinnacle, she found a locked door. phrases carved into the wooden read: “Will you consider us, or will you be a part of us?”Her knees weakened. She pressed her hand towards the door. It swung open. inside was a huge room, partitions coated with mirrors. In every mirrored image, she noticed herself—but distorted, hole-eyed, silent.

The notebooks scattered throughout the floor opened without delay. Pages flipped violently, ink spilling into phrases: “day after today comes to a decision the whole lot.”The mirrors cracked. The silence roared. She fell to her knees, clutching the pocket book. “i'm able to don't forget you,” she whispered. “i'm able to bring your voices.”

The blackout eased. The lights flickered again to existence. The reflections dissolved. The elevator reappeared. She staggered inside, descending to the lobby. while she stepped out, sunrise had arrived. The town glowed with sunlight. The tower stood tall, its windows shining as even though nothing had happened. but Tiela knew. She had visible the silence. She had carried the voices.

That night time, she lit a candle at her table. She began to put in writing—no longer her very own tale, but theirs. every phrase carried weight, each sentence carried sorrow. She wrote till her palms ached, until the silence finally allowed her to relaxation. the next morning, the tower blacked out again. but this time, one window remained lit.

Her window.

And on the final page of the notebook, a unmarried line appeared: “The song of the next day is yours now. Do now not allow silence win.”