The Empty Book
"Hello? Anyone here?" My voice echoed through the hollowed-out ribs of the library, swallowed by the thick, grey dust that coated every surface like a burial shroud. I hated this place. It was a tomb of forgotten thoughts, and yet, in this godforsaken countryside, it was the only place that didn't smell like wet earth and silence.
"It's just for a year," I whispered to the empty air, trying to conjure the bright lights of the city. My hand drifted across the bookshelves, my fingertips leaving trails in the grime. Libraries were supposed to be cozy, but here, the stillness felt aggressive.
Then, I saw it. Tucked away in a corner where the shadows seemed to pool like spilled ink, a thick, heavy volume caught the light. Its spine was cracked, but a crimson jewel—deep and dark as a dried scab—was embedded in the center. Drawn to it like a moth to a flame, I pried the book from its resting place. Before I could even turn a page, a single, crumpled sheet of parchment fell at my feet.
It was a map. But the handwriting... it started elegant and devolved into a panicked, frantic scrawl before vanishing entirely. The ink looked fresh. Too fresh. My eyes swept back towards the portentous book, flipping through the pages and hoping for something more to slip out from its soul. But strangely, the entire book was totally empty, devoid of any inky mess. Even the white pages shone like pearls, jarringly contrasting with the state of the book on the outside.
“Weird. Such a vintage diary hidden in an inferior village? Shame.” I ditched the book and took the map with me. An empty diary was of no use to me. Or so I thought.
