“The Library That Only Appears on Nights I Cannot Sleep”

The Library That Only Appears on Nights I Cannot Sleep

By [Ali Rehman]

I have always been an insomniac, but it wasn’t until last winter that I realized my sleeplessness was a doorway.

It began on a night when the world felt tight around my chest, when thoughts tangled in my mind like stubborn vines. I left my apartment and wandered through the cold, empty streets, hoping exhaustion would eventually call me home.

Instead, I found it.

The first time I saw the library, it stood between two buildings that never had a gap between them before. One moment the alley was pitch dark, the next it was glowing with warm amber light. A tall wooden structure, ancient yet immaculate, stood where nothing belonged. The sign above the door read:

THE LIBRARY OF UNWRITTEN HOURS

I should have turned away. Any logical person would have. But something about the warm light and the silent invitation drew me forward.

When I pushed the door open, it breathed—a soft exhale, like a sigh of relief that someone had finally returned.

Inside, the air smelled of old paper and distant rain. Hundreds of shelves spiraled upward into a ceiling I could not see. And each shelf was packed with books of all colors, shapes, and ages, but they all shared one thing:

My name.

Not my name printed neatly on a cover, but handwritten in my own messy, tilted script.

At first I thought it was a coincidence, some strange dream crafted by an overtired brain. But when I pulled the first book from the shelf, its title sent a chill down my spine:

“THE DAY YOU WILL FORGIVE YOUR FATHER.”

My heart stumbled.

Inside were pages filled with events that had not happened—conversations I had not spoken, moments I had not lived. It ended with a date. A future date.

I placed it back and pulled another.

“THE LAST TIME YOU WILL CRY FOR HER.”

Another date. Another prediction. Another version of me I hadn’t yet become.

I should have panicked. Instead, I read.

Hours passed, or maybe seconds. In that place, time moved like a slow wind—felt but never seen. I devoured book after book, each one an intimate prophecy of emotions I had not yet faced: heartbreak I’d survive, friendships I’d lose, joys I’d never expect. Some titles I couldn’t bring myself to open:

“THE MISTAKE THAT WILL CHANGE EVERYTHING.”

“THE WORDS YOU WILL WISH YOU HADN’T SAID.”

“THE MOMENT YOU REALIZE YOU’RE NOT LOST ANYMORE.”

The last shelf I approached was different. Dustier. Quieter. As if untouched for centuries. Only one book rested there.

A thin, black journal.

No title.

Only my name.

When I opened it, the pages were blank—every single one.

But when I blinked, ink began blooming on the first page like a dark flower:

“THE NIGHT YOU SEE THIS IS THE NIGHT EVERYTHING BEGINS.”

I closed the book quickly and stepped back. A shiver crawled up my spine. Something about this volume felt alive, aware. Like it was still deciding what story to write.

And then I noticed something else.

Footsteps.

Not mine.

They echoed from behind a massive shelf, slow and deliberate. I froze. The footsteps grew closer, accompanied by a low whispering—pages rustling, breaths between words. I wasn’t alone.

“Who’s there?” I called out.

The sound stopped.

Then a voice answered, soft but heavy with knowledge, like a librarian who had watched centuries unfold.

“You shouldn’t read ahead.”

Before I could respond, a gust of cold wind swept through the aisles. The shelves flickered like a mirage. The lights dimmed. And in the span of a heartbeat, the entire library dissolved into darkness.

I found myself standing back in the empty alley.

The gap between the buildings was gone.

Only a faint smell of old paper lingered.

II

The library didn’t return the next night.

Or the next.

But weeks later, on another restless, sleepless evening, when thoughts once again crowded my mind, I stepped outside—and there it was. Glowing. Waiting.

It appears only when I cannot rest, only when my mind is loud enough to summon it.

Each visit reveals more of the future I may walk into. And yet, the black journal remains blank… except for the first page, reminding me that the unwritten hours ahead are mine to shape.

Some nights, I want to read every prophecy, to know where pain hides and where joy waits.

But I hear the voice echo in my head:

“You shouldn’t read ahead.”

And I realize the truth:

The library is not meant to cage me in certainty.

It exists to remind me that every future is both written and unwritten—

that I am the author, even when I forget.

Moral:

The future may offer glimpses, but your choices write the final draft.