The further Maya walked, the louder the silence seemed to grow. It was as if the building itself was holding its breath, waiting for something. Her flashlight beam scanned the aisles, casting long, stretched shadows across the floor. The scent of old paper hung thick in the air, and every now and then, her shoe would crunch over fallen pages or a brittle spine that had given way to time.
Then it happened again.
A whisper—soft, faint, curling through the shelves like smoke. It wasn't wind or her imagination. It had rhythm, a pattern, almost like words.
She stood still and listened.
The whisper came again. "...turn... page..."
Her breath caught. She turned her head, trying to trace the direction of the sound, but it shifted with each beat of her heart. It didn't come from any one place. It came from everywhere. The shelves, the books, the air itself.
A strange chill ran down her spine.
"I'm not scared," she whispered to herself, gripping the flashlight tighter. But her fingers trembled just a little.
She rounded a corner and found herself in a small reading alcove—a hidden space surrounded by circular shelves and crowned with a dusty chandelier. In the center stood a round table, and on it lay a single book.
It wasn't covered in dust like the others. In fact, it looked untouched—its dark leather cover unblemished, its golden clasp unbroken. It sat there almost too perfectly, like it had been waiting just for her.
Maya approached slowly, her footsteps echoing across the tiled floor. The whispering had stopped now, replaced by an eerie stillness.
She reached out and brushed her fingers across the book's surface. It felt warm, oddly alive. The golden clasp clicked open on its own, and the book fell open with a soft sigh.
But the pages were blank.
She frowned, flipping through them quickly. Nothing. Not a word.
Until—
Her name appeared.
Maya Turner, written in elegant, glowing ink across the first page.
She staggered back in shock, nearly dropping the flashlight. The letters shimmered for a moment, then settled on the page like any normal ink.
She looked around. "Okay… that's weird."
As she stared, another line began to form beneath her name, appearing as though an invisible pen was writing it in real time.
"Tell me your story."
Maya blinked. "What?" she whispered aloud.
The book didn't respond. But she could feel something—an energy in the air, pulsing gently like a heartbeat. It was as if the book itself had spoken those words, not in sound, but in thought.
Her story? What did that mean?
She glanced down again. The words remained. Waiting.
And though every instinct told her this was impossible, unbelievable, unreal—she found herself leaning closer.
"Okay," she whispered, voice unsteady. "I'll tell you."
And so she began.