Elias Voss was a failure.

Not just a regular failure, the kind that people pitied. The kind that got silent nods and forced encouragement like, "Keep going, man. Your time will come."

His time never came.

Today was proof of that. Another rejection letter, another dream crushed.

Slumping onto the torn couch in his tiny apartment, he stared at the email on his cracked phone screen.

"Thank you for your submission. Unfortunately, we don't feel your work is the right fit for us at this time."

The same damn sentence. Every time.

His jaw clenched as he tossed the phone onto the table. He wasn't asking for much—just a chance. A foot in the door. Something to prove he wasn't wasting his life.

Instead, he had a negative bank balance, a fridge full of expired food, and a landlord who'd started knocking on his door with a little too much aggression.

Screw this. He needed air.

The city was suffocating. It reeked of desperation—the same desperation he saw in his own reflection. The streets were filled with people who had somewhere to be, something to do, someone waiting for them.

He had none of that.

He never had.

Elias had always been on the losing side of life.

He grew up in a town no one left, a place where dreams went to die. His father was a ghost, gone before Elias was old enough to remember him, and his mother—well, she did her best, but "best" didn't put food on the table.

She worked herself to the bone, cleaning houses she could never afford, wearing down her body for a paycheck that barely covered the rent. Elias saw the exhaustion in her eyes, the way she forced a smile even when they had nothing. She told him stories at night, filling the dark with words that made the world feel bigger than their tiny apartment.

"One day, you'll write stories that matter, Eli."

He used to believe her.

Then she got sick.

Hospitals weren't kind to people without insurance. By the time she was gone, Elias was eighteen, broke, and alone. No family. No safety net. Just a handful of notebooks filled with half-finished stories and a world that didn't give a damn about him.

So he ran.

First to the city, then to anywhere that promised the illusion of a fresh start. He took whatever jobs he could find—waiting tables, stocking shelves, scrubbing dishes—just to survive. Every spare second, he wrote. Story after story, rejection after rejection, until his failures started stacking up higher than his dreams.

At twenty-seven, he had nothing.

No degree. No savings. No backup plan. His job at a local diner barely covered rent, and his landlord was getting tired of waiting.

Every time he saw his reflection, he barely recognized himself. The dark circles under his eyes, the constant exhaustion, the bitterness curling inside his chest.

The world had already decided what he was.

Nothing.

And then he found the book.

Or maybe… it found him.

****

The Book That Shouldn't Exist

His feet dragged him forward, no real destination in mind, until he found himself in front of a dingy, old bookshop. The sign above the door was faded, barely readable.

HOLLOW'S END BOOKS

He'd never seen it before. Strange, considering he'd walked this street a hundred times.

The window display was covered in dust, the books inside stacked haphazardly like they'd been untouched for years. A CLOSED sign dangled against the glass, but the door was slightly open.

He pushed it.

A bell jingled. The smell of old paper, ink, and something damp filled the air.

"Hello?" His voice echoed. No answer.

The place looked abandoned. Shelves towered over him, crammed with books that looked like they belonged in a museum. No organization. No labels. Just chaos.

Moving deeper inside, his fingers brushed against cracked spines. Some titles were in languages he didn't recognize. Some had no titles at all.

Then, he saw it.

A single book, sitting on a wooden pedestal at the very back of the shop.

Unlike the others, it wasn't covered in dust. It looked… new.

The cover was pure black, with only three words etched in silver:

DO NOT READ

His throat went dry.

Something about it made his skin crawl. The way it just sat there, like it was waiting.

He reached out—

"Don't touch that."

Spinning around, he found an old man standing behind the counter, his face lined with age, eyes sharp and knowing. A threadbare sweater clung to his frail frame, his hands resting on the wood like he was waiting for a challenge.

"This book…" Elias's voice came out hoarse. "Where did it come from?"

The man shook his head. "It's not for sale."

"But it's in your shop."

"That doesn't mean you should take it."

Something in his tone made Elias's stomach twist. But that only made him more curious.

Turning back to the book, he asked, "Why? What's in it?"

Silence.

He looked at the old man again. No answer.

That was all the confirmation he needed.

Grabbing the book, he headed straight for the counter.

The old man sighed. "You don't listen, do you?"

"Nope. How much?"

The man didn't move. Didn't even look at the register. Instead, he leaned forward, his voice dropping to a whisper.

"Once you open it, you can't take it back."

A chill ran down Elias's spine.

Forcing a laugh, he scoffed, "You're really selling the whole mystical warning thing, huh?"

The man didn't blink.

Elias pulled out his last twenty-dollar bill and slid it across the counter.

The old man didn't take it.

Instead, he muttered, "Good luck, kid," and turned away.

The First Wish

When Elias got home, he didn't open the book right away.

Maybe it was the way the old man spoke, or the way the shop felt colder when he left. But something inside him told him to wait.

Sitting on his bed, he stared at the cover. DO NOT READ.

A stupid title. Probably some experimental novel trying to be edgy.

He hesitated.

Then, he flipped it open.

Blank pages.

Frowning, he turned to another. And another.

The whole book was empty.

Exhaling through his nose, he muttered, "Really? I spent my last twenty bucks on a damn journal?"

But then, on the very last page, in neat, perfect handwriting, were the words:

"Whatever you write will become real. But every gift has a price."

He stared.

The words didn't make sense.

Running his finger over the ink, he found it smooth, as if it had been printed there.

Scoffing, he said, "Yeah, okay."

Grabbing a pen from his nightstand, he figured if it was a journal, he might as well use it.

Tapping the pen against the paper, he thought for a moment.

Something small. Something stupid.

"I have a hundred-dollar bill in my pocket."

He wrote it without thinking.

The ink dried instantly.

Sighing, he muttered, "What a joke."

Closing the book, he shoved it onto his bedside table and flopped onto the bed.

Tomorrow, he'd return it.

But then—

A crinkling sound.

Frowning, he reached into his pocket. His fingers brushed against something crisp.

His stomach dropped.

Pulling it out, he stared at the hundred-dollar bill in his hand.

Shooting up, his eyes locked onto it, waiting for it to disappear.

"What the hell…"

He had nothing. He was a failure.

But now?

Now, he had a goddamn miracle.

And he didn't even think of the most important question.

What was the price?