It started with a wrong turn. I was walking home just after twilight, the kind of night when shadows seem a little too curious, and the air hums with something you can’t quite name. That’s when I saw it—a small, ivy-covered building tucked between two alleyways that had never been there before. Its arched doorway was open, flickering with soft candlelight. Above it, carved into dark wood, were the words: The Library of Whispers.

Compelled by something beyond curiosity, I stepped inside. It was silent at first, but not for long. As I wandered through the rows of old, towering shelves, I realized the books were whispering. Not in any language I knew—just hushed voices, like wind over paper, secrets being exchanged from spine to spine. The air smelled of old ink and forgotten dreams.

Then I saw it. A thin, leather-bound book resting on a pedestal under a single beam of moonlight. It had my name on the cover. Just my name. My fingers trembled as I opened it.

The pages began to glow. Soft, golden light spilled upward, wrapping around me like a warm breath. Words surfaced, not printed, but forming—ink rising like mist to tell a story. My story. Childhood dreams, moments I’d forgotten, the exact thought I had the night I lost my first tooth. It was all there, somehow alive and breathing.

Then the pages flipped ahead—fast, fluttering wildly—until they stopped on a chapter titled Tomorrow.

And that’s when I saw something I hadn’t yet lived. A crossroads, a decision, a door I hadn’t found. The book was showing me not just who I was, but who I could become. The glowing light dimmed as I read, sinking into me, whispering truths I hadn’t dared believe.

When I looked up, the library was empty again. Silent. Waiting.

I took a deep breath, closed the book, and stepped outside. The doorway vanished behind me.

But in my hands, the book remained.

What happens next?

Eydie