The City's Riddle

The riddle wasn't written in ink, not in the way I understood ink. It was more of an impression, a ghost of meaning pressed into the vellum, shimmering just beyond the edge of sight. I’d spent days tracing the faint lines, my fingertips growing raw against the ancient grain of the pages. The book, this silent sentinel of forgotten tongues, had yielded its initial secrets with a reluctant sigh, but this new challenge felt different. It was a door that refused to creak open, a lock