Sleep did not come easily that night. The weight of the book pressed against Anna's consciousness even as she lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. Every creak of her apartment felt magnified, every rustle of wind outside a whispered warning. Was it paranoia? Or was something - or someone - watching?
At dawn, she sat at her desk with a cup of tea, the book still resting where she had left it. She hesitated before touching it again, but the need for answers burned stronger than fear. Flipping through the pages, she noticed something strange. A passage that hadn't been there the night before now stood out in fresh, bold ink:
The search for truth begins where words are forgotten.
Her fingers tightened around the spine. Was the book… changing?
Determined to find answers, she turned to the internet, searching for any mention of The House of Ashes or E. Laurent. Nothing. No records of its publication, no author biography, no reviews, not even whispers of it in obscure literary forums. It was as though the book had never existed outside her own reality.
Anna's next thought was the bookstore. Surely, the bookseller knew more than he had let on. She dressed quickly and grabbed her coat, but when she arrived at the store, an unsettling sight greeted her.
The shop was empty. Not just closed - abandoned.
Dust had already begun settling on the front counter. The shelves, which had been crammed with books only the day before, stood eerily bare. A shiver ran through her as she stepped inside, the wooden floorboards creaking underfoot. Had she imagined the old bookseller? Had any of it even happened?
Then, she saw it.
A single book lay on the otherwise empty counter - The House of Ashes. Her own copy.
Anna backed away, her heart hammering in her chest. She had left that book at home. Hadn't she?
The words on the cover seemed darker now, as if the ink had deepened overnight. She reached out hesitantly, running a fingertip across the spine. The book felt warm.
Her pulse raced. She needed to get out of there. But as she turned, a whisper brushed against her ear, dry and distant like pages turning on their own:
"You were never supposed to find it."
Anna spun, but the store was empty.
She ran.