The First Note
The bell above the bookshop door chimed softly, even though no one had entered.
Lena looked up from the worn ledger she’d been writing in, startled. The sound always made her heart leap—half with hope, half with dread.
It was nearly midnight.
The street outside was silent, slick with rain, and the soft hum of the streetlamp outside cast shifting shadows across the shop’s old wooden floorboards.
She rubbed her fingers against the spine of an unread novel, as if grounding herself in its familiar texture. The shop smelled of coffee that had gone cold hours ago, paper, and the faint trace of lavender she sprayed on the shelves every evening.
The bookshop was her whole world. A world she thought she understood.
Until tonight.
---
The creak came first—an almost imperceptible groan of the floorboards near the back door.
“Hello?” Lena called, her voice steady but cautious.
Only the rain answered, tapping against the window like impatient fingers.
She stood, pushing back the chair with a faint scrape, and made her way to the counter near the shop’s back exit. That’s when she saw it—folded neatly, as though placed there with purpose, a torn page resting on the wood.
Lena’s breath caught.
It wasn’t there before.
The page looked like it had been ripped from an old book; the edges jagged, the paper yellowed, with faint lines of script scrawled across it in careful handwriting.
She reached for it, hesitating for a fraction of a second, then unfolded it.
---
The ink was dark, bold — as though written just moments ago.
“Lena.
Some stories don’t start with hello.
Some start with a warning.”
That was all it said.
No signature.
No explanation.
Her fingers trembled slightly as she turned the page over, searching for more. It was blank on the other side.
She whispered to herself, barely audible,
> “How do they… know my name?”
---
The shop felt colder suddenly.
Lena glanced at the door — still locked. She checked the windows — rain streaming, the streets empty.
She wasn’t expecting anyone. She rarely did.
---
The bell chimed again.
Soft. Too soft.
Lena spun around.
The door hadn’t opened.
No one was there.
---
She clutched the torn page tighter, as if holding onto it could give her answers.
Her mind was loud now:
Someone was here.
Someone close enough to leave this.
Someone who knows me.
Her heart beat faster — not entirely out of fear.
Somewhere, deep beneath the unease, a spark of curiosity ignited.
---
She moved toward the door, hand brushing against the shelf of poetry, eyes scanning for movement.
The shop was still.
Almost too still.
---
Lena turned the paper over again, as if a hidden message might appear under the dim yellow light.
There wasn’t one.
Just those four words, staring back at her like a whisper she couldn’t unhear:
“Some start with a warning.”
---
Outside, the streetlamp flickered once… then twice.
And for a heartbeat, Lena swore she saw a shadow just beyond the glass — tall, still, watching.
When she blinked, it was gone.
---
She locked the torn page inside the cash drawer, her fingers still trembling.
And just as she turned to leave, a single thought echoed louder than all the rest:
---
“If this is the beginning… how dark is the story going to get?”
