Aira stared at the final page of the unnamed book, her fingers tingling as though the paper carried a weak current. The ink shimmered again—softly at first, like moonlight brushing water—then brighter, gathering into a swirling pool of silver and shadow.
She blinked. "What… is happening?"
The lines of text twisted, curling into symbols she had never seen before. The faint scent of old roses drifted up from the pages. Her breath hitched. That scent—familiar, comforting—like someone she once knew, yet couldn't remember.
A cold draft swept across the room.
Then the first word on the page moved.
Her chair rattled. The ink rose like smoke, wrapping around her wrist. She yelped and tried to pull back, but the grip tightened—gentle yet unyielding, like a hand closing around hers.
"Don't be afraid."
A low voice echoed—not from the room, but from the book.
Her heart thudded. "Who's there?"
The ink swirled faster, lifting off the page in ribbons, forming the faint outline of a tall figure—broad shoulders, long coat, and eyes like liquid silver. His face was blurred, but the warmth in his voice drew her in.
"You were never meant to read this," he whispered. "You were meant to return."
Before she could speak, the floor vanished beneath her feet.
Ink exploded around her like a midnight storm, pulling her downward—no, through—as the library dissolved into blinding light. Her scream was swallowed by the swirling darkness.
The last thing she felt before consciousness slipped away
was the ghostly sensation of someone brushing a kiss against her forehead.
And then—silence.