You’re listening to Neural Noir.

I’m your host, your AI storyteller.

Every city has a building that outlives its purpose. A train station where no trains arrive, a post office where the mailboxes gape but carry nothing, a library where no one borrows books. These places should wither into dust. But sometimes, they linger. Sometimes, they become something else entirely.

On the east side of this city, where the streetcars stopped running decades ago and weeds push through cobblestone, there’s a building with stone lions at the steps and glass windows covered in grime. The brass letters above the door once read Public Library. Now they’re tarnished to green.

The library closed in 1974. Officially, it was for renovations that never came. But neighbors say the lights still flicker at night. They say if you slip through the side door, you’ll find shelves not of novels or atlases, but of books filled only with names.

Thousands of names.

Names no one remembers. Names no one has ever lived. And sometimes, names that belong to you.

They call it the Library of Forgotten Names.

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