When Time Forgets Itself
“I once attempted to catalogue the temporal behaviour of the Inn.
The ink turned to dust halfway through a sentence.”
There is an assumption, held by mortals and gods alike, that time behaves.
That it marches forward.
That it can be charted, measured, harnessed.
Inside the Inn, such assumptions are… adorable.
Time here is not linear. It is not circular. It is not, strictly speaking, obedient.
It is a thread caught in the rafters—tugged when needed, knotted when bored, and sometimes fraying entirely if no one is paying attention.
You will sleep. You will wake. You will eat something you don’t remember ordering.
And you will glance at the candle stub beside your bed and wonder why it’s longer now than when you blew it out.
You are not imagining it.
You are simply not as anchored as you used to be.
The Days That Don’t Add Up
For new Patrons, time feels almost normal. Days pass. Nights fall. Meals arrive more or less when they’re meant to, assuming the kitchen isn’t experimenting again.
But stay long enough, and things begin to unravel:
- You recall yesterday, only to be told it happened three weeks ago.
- You meet someone for the first time—and they thank you for saving their life.
- You leave for a moment and return to find your room dusted, your laundry folded, and a note in your own handwriting that you do not remember writing.
There are no clocks.
The ones that appear either spin, chime at irregular intervals, or quietly hum until someone removes them.
Do We Age?
Yes.
But less than you should. The longer you stay, the slower you change. It’s not that time stands still—it simply forgets to check in.
You will grow tired. You will heal. Your hair will grow. So will your nails.
You may reach the end of a long stay looking no older than when you arrived. Or you may leave and find the world has aged around you.
Do not assume this is a gift.
The Inn preserves what it values. It does not ask what you want.
And When You Leave?
That is… complicated.
Some step through the gates and re-enter their world unchanged.
Others return to find decades have passed—families grown old, kingdoms risen and fallen, a war won in their name they never fought.
But the most common outcome?
Time adapts to you.
It edits your absence. Inserts convenient legends. Forgets details. Adds new ones.
You were always gone. Or you never left. Or you returned moments before you departed, and now everyone looks at you like prophecy incarnate.
Reality is nothing if not accommodating—provided you don’t ask too many questions.
How History Exists When Time Refuses To
The Inn remembers.
It does not mark seasons. It does not measure decades. It does not celebrate founding days.
But it remembers.
So does the Library.
You may wonder how history is recorded in a place where time forgets to behave. The answer is: selectively, stubbornly, and with absolutely no respect for linearity.
The Library Writes Its Own Chronology
Books appear.
Not all at once. Not with ceremony. Sometimes in the middle of the night, shelved by no one, their ink still drying. Titles like:
- The Fifth Arrival of Tolin Karr
- That Time the Kitchen Became a Desert
- Chronicle of the Door That Shouldn’t Have Been There
They are not written by me.
They are curated by me.
I file them. I read them. I decide which are worth keeping, and which are… politely recycled.
Some entries are dated. Others are simply stamped "Soonish."
If you look hard enough, you may find your own name among the shelves—often before you’ve done anything worth writing about.
“The Library does not follow time. It follows significance.”
Roughly In Order. Mostly.
There is no master record. No unified archive. Instead, the Inn’s history is compiled tales—collections, anthologies, themed shelf clusters. Volumes that appear to be in order until you realise Volume 3 ends three months after Volume 7, and Volume 5 refuses to open unless you’re sad about something.
Some stories are retold. Some contradict each other. Some are erased and then reappear a week later, slightly smugger.
Events are remembered by weight, not sequence.
A bar fight that started a romance may outlast the war it accidentally interrupted.
A Patron’s name might echo through seven books, only to vanish the moment they feel forgotten.
This is why journals rarely work.
Why dates are discouraged.
Why I once removed a historian for trying to "fact-check" an oral legend told by a chair.
You do not chart history here.
You simply join it, and hope the Library notices.
What the Library Refuses to Say
There are wings in the Library that keep perfect time.
Clocks that never tick. Candles that never burn. A hallway where every door leads to the moment before you open it.
Lucian does not dust that corridor.
I know what happens to those who trespass there. I know why the ink fades in some journals and bleeds in others.
I know what it means when the Inn rewrites you.
And I am not telling.
Temporal Entanglement: A Cautionary Footnote
“Yes, you can leave before you arrive.
No, it is not advised.
The Inn does not prohibit paradox. It invites it. With tea.”
Can You Leave Before You Entered?
Yes.
Rarely. Quietly. Usually by accident.
Most who do never realise—until someone recognises them for something they haven’t done yet.
The Inn does not prevent this. If anything, it seems mildly amused.
What If You Meet Yourself?
That depends entirely on your level of self-loathing.
Polite meetings tend to resolve cleanly. You nod. They nod. You walk away very quickly and pretend not to look that smug.
Accidental confrontations are more complicated. If your “past self” interferes with your “current self,” timelines can unravel slightly. Symptoms include déjà vu, migraine spells, and in one case, spontaneous multi-lingual argument with your own reflection.
Lucian once referred to these events as “chrono-mirrored manifestations.”
I refer to them as "plot complications best resolved with distance and silence."
Is It Dangerous?
Yes.
Not always to you. But to the narrative fabric of whatever world you were in at the time?
Absolutely.
Avoid eye contact.
Avoid direct questions.
And for the love of reason, do not try to outsmart yourself.
You already know all your tricks.
“If you are ever offered the chance to speak to yourself—Consider whether you have anything worth hearing.”
At A Glance
What This Is:
A guide to time inside The Last Home, composed by Seraphis Nightvale. Expect accuracy, ominous phrasing, and a total lack of sympathy.
Why It Matters:
Time in the Inn doesn’t move so much as contemplate motion. Understanding this can help prevent existential confusion, temporal drift, or waking up famous for something you haven’t done yet.
What Happens Inside the Inn:
- Time is loose. It passes, but not consistently.
- You age slowly. Very slowly.
- Physical processes continue—hair, nails, hunger. Just… weirdly.
- Most Patrons stop noticing after a while.
What Happens When You Leave:
- The world might move on without you.
- Or it might not notice you were gone.
- Or it might edit its own memory to make sense of your return.
- Reality is… flexible.
“Questions I Have Been Asked (For Reasons That Elude Me)”
A marginal compilation by Seraphis Nightvale
Q: “Do my toenails still grow?”
A: Yes. Time is strange, not merciful. Groom yourself.
Q: “What about hair?”
A: Also yes. Do not attempt to outrun your fringe. It will catch you.
Q: “Can I die of old age in here?”
A: If you stay long enough to find out, I envy your patience.
Q: “What’s the worst that’s ever happened because of the time weirdness?”
A: A cleric met her own granddaughter before her daughter had finished breakfast.
She handled it admirably. The tea was slightly over-steeped.
Q: “Can I go back and change something?”
A: No. You can, however, be rewritten to have never needed to.
Q: “If I meet myself, is that bad?”
A: Only if you're unpleasant.
Q: “Can I talk to myself?”
A: Of course. But beware: they already know your arguments.
Q: “What if I kill myself?”
A: Then someone else becomes you. The Library files it under ‘regrettable escalation.’
Q: “Could that cause a fracture?”
A: Yes. The moment may unravel. You may split into interpretative versions of yourself.
One might be a parrot. We do not explain the parrot.
Q: “Will I explode?”
A: No. You will cease to be narratively useful. The Inn edits. Quietly. With a fern, if necessary.
Q: “Has anyone ever popped?”
A: Yes. Their absence was noted. Their replacement is very polite.
Q: “How do I know which version of me is real?”
A: You don’t. And that’s why they all think they are.
Q: “Is there a test for paradox exposure?”
A: If you’re asking, you’ve likely already failed it.
Q: “Final advice?”
A: If you are ever offered the chance to speak to yourself—
Consider whether you have anything worth hearing.
Advice from a Maid
"Time’s broken. Don’t poke it.
If someone calls you by your name and it’s not your day to be here yet—leave. Backwards if you have to.
If you run into yourself? Punch first. Ask which one of you bleeds second.
Woke up with longer hair? Congratulations, you’ve either time-skipped or sleep-grown a mullet. Fix it.
The Library knows when you’re lying. Especially to yourself.
The clocks lie. The candles lie. The soup lies.
Trust me.
You don’t want to be rewritten. The last guy came back as a chair."
— Rika, Legendary Maid (and aggressively temporal constant)
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