Borges: The Librarian Who Went Blind

The reservation was a mistake — or so Vera told herself. The Alcázar Grand had been closed for eleven years, yet when she pulled into the gravel drive at quarter past midnight, every window on the third floor burned with amber light. The front doors stood open, as if the hotel had been expecting her. Inside, the lobby smelled of old roses and candle wax, and behind the mahogany desk stood a man who looked like he'd been carved from the building itself — dark-eyed, sharp-jawed, dressed in a suit that belonged to another decade. 'You must be our second guest,' he said, sliding a brass key across the counter. 'We've been waiting.'

Every night before sleep, Martin whispered a prayer into the darkness. It was a habit from childhood — meaningless words murmured into the pillow, addressed to no one. He never expected an answer. But three weeks ago, something in the darkness of his bedroom began to whisper back. At first, he thought it was the radiator. Then the wind. Then his own half-dreaming mind. But the whispers grew clearer, and last night, for the first time, they used his name.