---Prologue---
Books aren't just paper and ink. They have hearts. They have memories. Some laugh. Some cry. Some hide secrets in quiet corners, waiting for the right eyes to find them.
And some wait for the impossible.
That's what my mother used to say.
She was an author, one of those rare people who could make words breathe, twist, and linger like music. I grew up inside her stories, following her thoughts as if they were trails of light. Every page had a pulse. Every line a heartbeat.
Sometimes, I wondered… could stories outlive the people who wrote them?
Now, in the dimmest corner of the library, my fingers brush against a spine that shouldn't exist.
It hums beneath my touch. Soft. Almost imperceptible. Alive.
And then I hear it, a whisper. My mother's voice, faint, coaxing me closer.
The air feels charged. Expectant.
A shiver runs down my spine.
Maybe some stories never truly end.
Maybe they are just waiting. Waiting for the right reader, at the right moment, to awaken them.
And somehow, I know this one has been waiting far too long.