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You wake up in a library.
Not a normal one.
Every book is bound in leather. Every spine has a name—not of authors, but of people. Some names you recognize. A few send chills down your spine. And one... is yours.
The air is thick with dust and silence. You run your fingers along the shelves. The books twitch under your touch. Some open just slightly, as if gasping for breath. Others remain tightly shut, chained with black iron clasps.
You hear a clock ticking—but see no clock.
Instead, a candle flickers on a wooden desk. Next to it sits your book.
It's bleeding.
Ink—thick and dark—seeps from between its pages, dripping onto the desk, staining the floor. You hesitate. Then open it.
Page 1: Blank.
Page 2: Blank.
Page 3: A drawing of your hand, reaching for something unseen.
And then, a sentence writes itself:
"You've rewritten too many truths. Now let's see what you erased."
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The Ninth Choice:
The pages flip violently on their own.
They stop at a memory.
It's a moment you almost forgot:
You're in a hospital hallway. There's a bed. Machines beeping. A woman's hand. Pale. Still. You're holding it. You're crying, but your face is calm.
Then the page starts burning from the center.
If you don't act fast, this memory will be gone forever.
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Do you:
A) Slam the book shut, saving the memory before it's destroyed.
B) Let it burn—if it's leaving, maybe it was meant to.
C) Rip the page out and hide it in your pocket.
D) Scribble over the burning part, replacing it with something you wish had happened.
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The candlelight flickers.
Something moves behind the bookshelves.
A figure?
No—just shadows… watching.
The sentence on the next page appears in blood-red ink:
"You are the author of your own suffering. How does the story end?"
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Quiz 9:
Another whisper trails behind your ears:
What kind of truth do you crave the most?
A) One that justifies what I've done.
B) One that explains why they left.
C) One that makes the pain feel necessary.
D) One that lets me forgive myself.
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End of Chapter 9
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