The book was never meant to found.
For centuries, it had been hidden—tucked away in forgotten places, passed from fearful hands to desperate ones. It whispered to those who came too close, luring them with promises of secrets they weren't meant to know. No matter how many times it was lost, it always returned.
Tonight, it rested on a worn wooden counter, its cracked leather cover blending into the dim glow of the bookshop. The bookseller traced a finger along its spine, his brow furrowing. He had sworn never to keep it, never to sell it. But something had changed.
She was coming.
He had seen it in his dreams—the way her fingers would hesitate before brushing the cover, the way the book would seem to breathe in her hands. The moment she opened it, her fate would be sealed.
A sigh escaped him. He wiped the dust from the title, watching as the gold lettering flickered briefly before fading once more. Whispers of Dreamland.
There was still time. He could lock the doors, hide it away again, pretend it was never here.
But he knew better.
The book always chose its reader.
And this time, it had chosen her.