The library in Old Delhi was my quiet place, a small room full of dust and old books where I could forget the noise outside. I had worked there for eight years, putting books back on shelves that no one touched, fixing covers that were falling apart, and sometimes just sitting alone, letting the smell of paper and glue calm me down. My name is Arjun Varma. I am thirty-eight years old, not married, and still paying back money for a school degree that never gave me a good job. That evening, the rain fell hard, banging on the tin roof like it wanted to come in, and the lights kept going on and off, making long shadows move on the walls. I was closing the library, locking doors and turning off lights one by one, when I saw something strange on the bottom shelf, hidden behind some old books about gods and stories from long ago.
It was a big book, thick and heavy, covered in rough leather with no name on it. It was not there in the morning—I would remember. I felt curious, the way I always do with books, so I took it to the table under the last light and opened it slowly, thinking it might have old words or poems. The first page was empty, no marks at all. Then, as I looked, words started to appear, not printed but like someone was writing them right now with wet ink that smelled a little like metal, like blood mixed with rain.
The words said: "The story starts when you bleed."
I laughed a little, feeling nervous, thinking it was a trick or a special book. I closed it and opened it again, but the words were gone, and now there was just one drop of black ink in the middle, growing bigger like a dark spot. I touched it without thinking. My finger got cut on something sharp inside—a small edge like a knife—and blood came out, mixing with the ink in red and black. That is when the lights went out completely, and the room became dark, with only lightning flashing outside.
When a small light came on, everything looked wrong. The books were not on the shelves; they were floating in the air, pages opening and closing like they were alive, and the floor moved under my feet like soft mud. I ran to the door, but it did not open, the handle cold and stuck, and through the windows, Delhi looked different—India Gate bent like a broken stick, the Yamuna river black, and rickshaws stuck high in the sky, wheels turning slow. My heart beat fast, fear growing inside, but before I could shout, a woman came out from the dark between the shelves, wearing a white dress wet from rain, hair dripping, face pale and one I knew too well.
It was Priya, my wife who died three years ago, but she was not right—her mouth was closed with thick black string, her eyes empty like deep holes. She lifted her hand, and black liquid fell from her fingers, making a pool on the floor that moved toward me like it had life. Her voice did not come from her mouth but from my mind, soft but heavy with old pain: "You never finished me, Arjun. Write me again if you can." It was not angry; it was sad, pulling at my guilt like a hand on my heart. I stepped back, falling over a chair, and the book was in my hand again, open to a new page with fresh words: "Write to live."
My hands shook as I took a pen from the table, the simple one I use every day, and wrote the first thing I thought: "Light." Nothing happened at first, but then a small glow came from the page, pushing back the dark just a little. I felt a spark of hope, so I wrote "Door," and the door changed, turning soft like mud, showing a way out to the street, still strange but open. Priya came closer, her closed mouth moving like she wanted words, and in panic, I wrote her name: "Priya." She shook a little, the string loosening for a second, and I saw her real smile from a happy day, but then she made a silent cry, and ink poured from her eyes, covering the floor fast.
The room got smaller, walls coming in like they wanted to crush me, books turning sharp like teeth in the air. I wrote quick: "Get away." A hole opened in the floor, dark and wet, and I jumped without thinking, falling through cold air that smelled of rain and loss. I landed in water, the Yamuna, but it was thick and black, pulling me up instead of down, and hands grabbed my leg—cold fingers, strong. I looked and saw a girl with an arm made of metal parts, clothes torn, eyes full of fire. Leela Kaur, a name I knew from the book's pages, pulled me onto a small boat that floated wrong on the dark water.
"You put me in this mess," she said, voice strong even with fear, wiping ink from her face. "Now fix it before the ghosts take us." The river had many ghosts—faint shapes of people, old ladies, kids, soldiers, moving slow with open mouths. Priya's ghost led them, her dress floating like a cloud, and as the first one reached, I lifted the pen, feeling something big wake inside me, a power I did not understand. I wrote "Fire," and flames came from the water, pushing the ghosts back in light and smoke. The boat moved, but something left me—a memory of Priya's laugh, gone. The dark time had started, and I was not just a library man. I was something new, tied to a book that changed the world, with Leela beside me and ghosts close behind.