The hum of fluorescent lights above Calen Brooks' cubicle had become a kind of white noise, like a dull ache he no longer noticed. His eyes, bleary from a screen full of spreadsheets, twitched every few seconds. Somewhere down the hall, someone was laughing too loudly.
Probably Gary. Gary always laughed like his lungs were trying to escape his body.
Calen sat still.
The numbers blurred together.
Another late night. Again.
His day had started the same way it always did.
Alarm at 6:30. Snooze at 6:35.
Out of bed by 6:50, rushing into a lukewarm shower, dressing in whatever shirt didn't look wrinkled under a blazer. He always skipped breakfast, but grabbed the same thing at the corner café on the way to the office—black coffee and a poppyseed bagel with cream cheese.
"Morning, Calen!" the barista chirped every morning with impossible cheer.
"Mm," he replied, tossing exact change into the tip jar.
Routine. Predictable. Numbing.
He worked on the 12th floor of a building that never saw sunlight thanks to the skyscraper across the street. His cubicle was grey. The carpet was greyer. His job was a blur of clicks and polite emails.
And then—every day—Gary.
"Yo Calen, how's the grind, brother?" Gary would say, sliding into his cubicle like a golden retriever in business casual.
"Still grinding," Calen replied the first few times.
By the fiftieth, his responses had evolved.
"Go away, Gary."
"Thrilling. Want a spreadsheet?"
"Just once, I hope you trip over your own ego."
Gary would just laugh and clap him on the back like they were old pals. "You kill me, man!"
No. You're killing me, Calen thought every time.
He tripped once in the lobby—coffee flew, bagel died a messy death—and instead of helping, a few people actually laughed. One woman even said, "Maybe if you didn't look like you hated the world, someone would've helped."
He stood up, wiped off his coat, and walked away without a word. He'd been late that day, too. Again.
Everyone assumed he was cold. Arrogant. Antisocial. He just didn't like... pretending. No interest in drinks after work or forced birthday celebrations in the breakroom.
"Come on, Calen, just one drink?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"I like my liver."
That one got a laugh. He hadn't meant it to.
When he finally left the office, the sky was already bleeding into twilight. The streets were wet, not from rain but from the city's endless cycle of condensation and cold. He walked with his hands in his coat pockets, shoulders hunched, headphones in, but no music playing.
Home was a small apartment that always smelled like old books and microwave dinners. He unlocked the door, dropped his keys into the bowl like a tired ritual, and kicked off his shoes.
In the corner of his room sat a dusty shelf lined with medals and trophies—faded reminders of a different Calen. A younger Calen who had once thrown kicks sharper than his tongue and punches more honest than any spreadsheet.
He picked up one of the trophies.
National Martial Arts Tournament – 1st Place.
He smiled bitterly.
"Guess life won that match, huh?" he muttered.
He sank into the couch, rubbed his face, then stared at the ceiling for what felt like an hour. When he sat up, the apartment felt even more hollow than before. He needed air.
The bookstore wasn't one he had ever noticed before. It was wedged between a laundromat and a café that smelled like burnt beans. The sign above the shop read The Wayward Quill, and the glass door jingled when he pushed it open.
Inside, the air was thick with incense and the scent of parchment. A strange quiet filled the place, as if the books themselves were listening.
Behind the counter sat a man who looked like he belonged in a forgotten century—round glasses, weathered skin, and a gaze that felt like it knew too much.
"Looking for something?" the man asked without looking up.
Calen almost said no. But then he saw it.
A book. Leatherbound. Tattered edges. Sitting alone on a pedestal as if it didn't want to be touched. Or maybe… as if it was waiting.
He pointed. "That one."
The old man looked up. His expression didn't change, but something flickered in his eyes.
"Take it. No charge."
Calen hesitated. "Why?"
"Some books find their readers, not the other way around."
He didn't open it right away.
The bridge wasn't far from his apartment. It was old, stone-built, and it had a view of the river that always made him think. He leaned on the railing, the book in his hands.
The water reflected his face—dark circles under the eyes, messy brown hair, a tiredness that ran deeper than sleep. Was this it? The rest of his life? Just surviving the next workday?
He opened the book.
A gust of wind exploded from the pages.
"What the—!" he gasped, stumbling back as his coat flapped wildly and the air howled like a secret being whispered too loudly. But when he looked down—
Empty pages.
Not a single word.
"You've got to be kidding me," he growled.
Anger bubbling up, he flung the book toward the river.
But his bag caught on the strap.
"No—!"
It flew with the book, both sinking like stones.
"Sh*t!"
Without thinking, he leapt over the railing.
Cold hit him like a slap. His limbs moved on instinct, pulling toward the sinking bag.
Then—
A pulse.
A light.
Bright. White. Swallowing everything.
[To Be Continued…]