The Trembling Library is, regrettably, exactly what it sounds like: a repository of knowledge that can’t seem to stop shaking. The cause is unknown. Scholars have suggested everything from architectural flaws to existential dread, though the latter is more widely accepted, largely because the building refuses to stand still long enough for proper inspection.
The shelves quiver.
The floors shudder.
The manuscripts rustle on their own, as if trying to crawl into more stable employment.
Despite these inconveniences, the Library contains an impressive number of texts. None of them are complete, and many refuse to be read in a linear fashion. Pages reorder themselves out of spite. Words migrate. Diagrams turn themselves inside out. On rare occasions, a paragraph simply stands up and leaves.
Fragments recovered here tend to be paper-like but disturbingly resilient, as if the objects learned early on not to trust their surroundings. They hum faintly, a vibration scholars insist is harmless, though several insistences have spontaneously changed their tune.
No one knows who built the Trembling Library, or why. The only thing we can say with confidence is that it still remembers something unsettling — and it would really prefer not to.
Approach with patience.
Leave with whatever hasn’t reshuffled itself.
And for heaven’s sake, don’t lean on the walls.