The Library That Ate Time

Birthdays. The annual forced march towards the grave, punctuated by awkward greetings and questionable cake choices. Mine, however, come with a unique little flavor: a yearly seventeen-minute vacation from consciousness. My brain's way of saying, "Nope, not dealing with another year of this." While the normies get balloons and heartfelt (read: generic) cards, I get a temporary flirtation with the void and the persistent suspicion that my existence is some cosmic sitcom I didn't audition for.

This year, though, the universe decided to spice things up. Seventeen minutes? Please. That's barely enough time for a decent power nap. When my eyelids finally decided to rejoin the party, my familiar, disaster-zone of a bedroom was gone. Vanished. Poof. Instead, I found myself standing at the edge of a forest that looked suspiciously like the setting for every low-budget horror flick ever made, facing an archway that exuded an aura of "enter at your own eternal peril." Pretty sure that hadn't been a feature of my suburban landscape last time I checked, which, admittedly, was right before I decided to take an unscheduled nap on the floor.

"Old" was an understatement. This thing looked like it had witnessed the dinosaurs going extinct – and probably judged their dramatic flair. The stone was a tapestry of cracks and fissures, like the earth itself was trying to swallow it back into the primordial ooze. Roots, thick and gnarled, snaked through its base, giving the impression that the archway was slowly being digested. Carved above, in a script that hummed with an unsettling familiarity in the back of my mind, were the words:

“For Those Who Cannot Remember.”

Given my current state of utter bewilderment, that felt less like a profound statement and more like a personal jab.

Stepping through wasn't a decision; it was an inevitability. Like being caught in a slow-motion vortex of the bizarre. One moment: creepy, suspiciously silent woods. The next: the world decided to pull a disappearing act, folding itself into a corridor that defied logic. Walls of shelves stretched into an oppressive darkness, laden with books that seemed to whisper forgotten stories. The air hung heavy with the scent of decaying paper and the ghost of thunderstorms, a surprisingly potent combination. The floor beneath my feet was colder than a vampire's kiss, smooth marble that seemed to suck the warmth right out of me.

Books. An endless, suffocating ocean of them. Each spine a silent sentinel, guarding tales untold. Leather-bound volumes that looked like they'd crumble at a touch, others shimmering with an unnatural iridescence, and yes, the one that still gave me the creeps – the one with the distinctly toothy spine. I maintained a respectful distance. Some stories, I suspected, were best left unread.

My feet, apparently operating on autopilot, carried me deeper into this literary labyrinth. Because when faced with the utterly inexplicable, my brain defaults to "explore." Probably not the smartest survival strategy, but hey, who needs self-preservation when there's potentially cursed literature to peruse?

A desk materialized out of the gloom, vast and imposing, like it had been carved from a tree that had witnessed the rise and fall of civilizations – and probably judged their architectural choices. Behind it sat a figure shrouded in an unnerving amount of shadow. Hood up, face completely obscured, hands encased in gloves stained with what I sincerely hoped was just really stubborn ink. They didn't so much as twitch in my direction, just offered a slow, deliberate gesture with a gloved finger towards a shelf tucked away in a dimly lit corner

One single book sat there. Isolated. Almost… expectant. Dark red, the color of dried blood or a particularly dramatic velvet curtain. And there, emblazoned on the spine in what looked suspiciously like tarnished silver: Mira Ellison.
Every nerve ending in my body screamed "touch it, you idiot," a primal urge that was both terrifying and irresistible. But the tiny, rational part of my brain – the one that occasionally pipes up with sensible advice, usually ignored – whispered a litany of warnings. "Haunted book," it hissed. "Your name on it. Probably wants your soul." Naturally, I told it to shut up.

The book felt… warm. Not like a pleasant warmth, more like the lingering heat of something that had been burning. Strangely familiar, like holding onto the frayed edges of a forgotten dream. My fingers trembled slightly as I pried open the cover.

The first page: my entrance into this chaotic mess we call life. A blurry, unflattering snapshot of infant indignity.

The next: a rapid-fire montage of my utterly unremarkable childhood. My disastrous first attempt at riding a bike, ending in predictable scrapes and tears. The birthday party where my so-called father was conspicuously absent, leaving a gaping hole in the forced cheer. The precise moment I realized that fictional characters were infinitely more reliable and interesting than their real-life counterparts. It was all there, the embarrassing highlights reel of my existence, bound in ominous red.

Then, the narrative abruptly stopped. A few pages after what I could only assume was "today," the ink vanished. Stark white. Empty. A void where my immediate future should have been.

I flipped another page. Still blank.

And another.

And another.

The story of Mira Ellison, future chapters unwritten. Erased.
I finally lifted my gaze to the hooded figure. They were standing now, impossibly still, radiating an aura of ancient knowing. A gloved hand emerged from the folds of their robes, placing a slender, obsidian pen on the dusty surface of the desk. The ink within pulsed with a faint, unsettling luminescence.

“Your story waits,” the figure rasped, their voice like dry leaves skittering across cobblestones. “But every choice costs something.”
“Like what? My sanity?” I retorted, because apparently, even in the face of ultimate weirdness, my sarcasm remained my most reliable defense mechanism.

The figure tilted their head, a slow, deliberate movement that felt less like a question and more like a silent, ominous observation.
“One you haven’t made yet.”

To be continued… because my life apparently operates on the principle of maximum inconvenience and cliffhangers that would make a soap opera writer blush.