A sigh escaped me as the cashier rang up my items. ￡5.50—roughly half of my current savings. I paid it with a heavy heart and left the store, ignoring the clerk’s monotone, almost robotic, "thank you." The cold air that greeted me sent shivers down my spine; my worn jacket and sweater did little to keep me warm.
The streets of London were buzzing with activity as people celebrated New Year’s Eve. In contrast to their cheerful, energetic selves, I felt hollow—knowing this would be my last night with a proper roof over my head for the foreseeable future. My landlord had a cruel sense of humor, and I was certain he’d picked this deadline on purpose.
I’d never been particularly privileged, having grown up in an orphanage before being thrown out the moment I came of age. Despite putting everything I had into my studies and graduating with stellar marks, I couldn’t even hold down a job at a fast food chain—either due to layoffs, or admittedly, my own mistakes. And now, all I had left was ￡4.50 in my pocket.
Suddenly, someone slammed into me hard, knocking me into a wall and almost making me drop my groceries.
“Hey!” I hissed indignantly, but to my shock, whoever it was had already vanished. Did I hit my head and black out? I wondered, rubbing the back of my head as I scanned the area. Then I noticed something on the ground—a leather-bound book, worn but well-maintained.
After glancing around once more, I picked it up, thinking it might belong to the person who bumped into me. Call it restitution for nearly making me lose my dinner—probably the only appetizing food I'd have for a while. I knew from experience that the shelter barely cared if the food was edible. The book had no title, only an unfamiliar insignia embossed on the cover. Maybe it’s worth something, I thought, and hurried off before anyone came looking for it.
The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
Eventually, I made it back to the familiar brick-veneer building I’d called home for the past two years. As expected, it looked abandoned—left to decay from years of neglect, with no one else around. I made my way to the mailbox assigned to me, hoping against hope that something had arrived. Maybe a government aid check from the program I’d applied to. Or a response from the dozens of job applications I’d sent out.
To my surprise, a white envelope lay inside, sparking a flicker of hope. I practically ran to my room before tearing it open—and just as quickly as it had come, that hope died. Another rejection. I tossed the letter onto the floor and collapsed onto the mattress, leaving my groceries and the book where they fell.
I slowly looked around the room. At the cardboard boxes I’d fashioned into a makeshift table. At my backpack, filled with what few belongings I had left, ready for tomorrow when I’d inevitably be kicked out. At the groceries I no longer had the appetite for. And finally, at the book.
As mentioned before, it looked like it might be valuable—maybe a rare collector’s edition, if I was lucky. Though with my luck, that was practically impossible. I sat on the mattress and picked the book up, flipping it open. The pages were written in a language I didn’t recognize—a blend between Nordic and what might have been Slavic script. I kept flipping through, trying to make sense of it, but it was useless. Page after page of the same strange symbols, occasionally broken up by diagrams that offered no context.
That was, until the book started to heat up. What began as a pleasant warmth quickly escalated to smoldering-hot—like touching a cast-iron pan fresh off the stove. I yelped and dropped it, crawling away. That’s when I saw the insignia begin to glow. The book floated a few feet into the air, growing brighter with every passing second.
Instinct told me to run, but I couldn’t move. I was transfixed, helpless, as the light intensified, overwhelming my senses. And then—everything went black
