Mira’s hands trembled as the blank book materialized on Shelf 313. The Library of Alexandria, Maine, held more than dusty first editions.
It held secrets.
Patrons whispered about books that whispered back. Some claimed their margins murmured forgotten histories. Others swore they found letters penned in their own handwriting—before they had written them.
But this book? This one wrote forward.
Mira hesitated, then traced her finger along its worn leather spine. Inside, the pages shimmered like trapped moonlight.
She tested it.
"Today, a red umbrella will tip into the river."
By noon, it did. A gust of wind snatched it from a child’s grip, tumbling it into the rushing water.
Mira’s breath quickened. She spent days scripting small mercies—misplaced wedding rings reappeared, forgotten cats found their way home, a waitress received the exact tip she needed for rent.
Then, the woman arrived.
She stormed in with rain-slicked boots, scarred hands, and eyes carved from grief. Without a word, she slammed the book open.
"Erase my husband’s death," she hissed.
The pages flickered. Words bled through the parchment like wounds opening in time.
Car crash, 8:03 PM.
Mira’s inkwell trembled. A single drop spilled—crimson, not black.
She knew the cost. To rewrite fate, she had to surrender her own. A life already fraying at the edges. A life hollowed by her daughter’s stillbirth, her name a ghost Mira still whispered in the dark.
The pen hovered.
Outside, rain bled into the Androscoggin River, swallowing the reflection of streetlights.
She had only moments to decide.
Ink the woman’s hope… or preserve her own fragile peace.