The rain fell in steady sheets as Anna stepped into the dimly lit bookstore, seeking refuge from the relentless storm. The scent of aged paper wrapped around her like an old friend, and the soft rustle of turning pages filled the air. She had spent the day buried in manuscript edits, her mind tangled in the complexities of unfinished stories. Now, she craved something unknown, something unexpected.
Her fingers trailed along the spines of forgotten titles until they landed on an unfamiliar book - The House of Ashes by E. Laurent. She hesitated. Anna prided herself on knowing every obscure literary work, yet this title meant nothing to her. The cover - a haunting illustration of a crumbling estate swallowed by fog - sent a shiver down her spine.
She opened it. Inside, an inscription read: For the one who finds the truth.
Curiosity flared. She carried the book to the counter. The old bookseller, his silver-rimmed glasses slipping down his nose, glanced at it - and froze.
"Where did you find this?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
Anna gestured to the back corner. The man's face darkened. "That book shouldn't be here."
But it was. And now, it belonged to her.
At home, she settled into her armchair, the book's brittle pages crackling beneath her fingers. The story unfolded - an intricate tale of a woman investigating the disappearance of an enigmatic author, E. Laurent himself. Strangely, the details mirrored her own life: the protagonist's favorite tea, her penchant for editing at midnight, even the scar on her wrist from a childhood accident.
Then, a passage caught her breath. It described her exact evening - a woman finding the book in a dimly lit shop, speaking to a wary bookseller, then bringing it home. The words blurred before her eyes. Her pulse quickened.
She turned the page.
She turned the page and found herself written within the lines.
Anna's hands trembled. The pages fluttered on their own, stopping at a final sentence: He is watching.
A sharp knock rattled her door.
Outside, rain dripped from the brim of the bookseller's hat. He held another copy of The House of Ashes. This one, however, bore her name on the cover.
"We need to talk," he said.
Anna hesitated before unlocking the door. The bookseller stepped inside, his presence carrying the scent of damp wool and something else - something ancient. He placed the book on her coffee table, its leather cover worn, edges curled as if it had passed through too many hands.
"You need to listen carefully," he said, his voice low. "This book - your book - has been rewritten before. And each time, the author disappears."
Anna swallowed. "What do you mean, disappears?"
The bookseller sighed, removing his glasses. "E. Laurent was the last to hold it. He vanished without a trace, just like the others before him. Now, the book has chosen you."
She glanced down at the pages, her heart pounding. "Chosen me for what?"
"To finish the story," he said. "Or be written out of it."
A gust of wind rattled the window. The lamp flickered. In the book, ink bled across the pages, forming new words before her eyes: The final author must decide how it ends.
Anna looked up, meeting the bookseller's knowing gaze. The storm raged outside, but the real tempest was within the pages now resting in her trembling hands.