"You could write a story about this"

‘You could write a story about this,’ she said.

A long hallway stretched for dozens of meters. Darkness didn’t let the signs on numerous doors be read, didn’t let the dust on the bookshelves be distinctly seen. Lonely footsteps echoed in the labyrinth of abandoned knowledge, as he and she were the first to enter it in many days, months and years. The cruel heat of summer noon couldn’t touch them through countless intersections of walls and stacks of novels written on brown paper.

Their breath slowed down, tracks of sweat drops dried on their foreheads.

As he and she kept stepping down this endless corridor, glancing on spines of books, they missed out puddles of empty bullet shells and piles of arm bones, hidden in the gloom. They also didn’t notice a little spark that sat on the pages of one of the books, with its light too weak to shine bright enough. The fire ate one word after another, and it did not stop as the steps vanished in the depths of the ancient building. It took its time. It killed the glories of knights when he and she left through a wide wooden door, it drained the rivers of blood when they sat in an old yellow car, it cracked the bones in the corners when she washed her long black hairs and melted the lead of bullets when he wrote a short story. It took its time, and no one ever again made a slightest attempt to stop it; it took its time until it burned everything down to ashes.