Rain had been falling over Greybridge since late afternoon.

  Not the kind of rain that storms and disappears, but the slow, endless kind that settles over the city like a second sky.

  The streets reflected every flickering streetlamp. Cars passed through puddles with quiet splashes. Somewhere far away, a train horn echoed through the night.

  Inside Old Lantern Books, the world felt older than the rain.

  Dust hung in the air between tall wooden shelves. Yellow lamps cast warm circles of light that never quite reached the ceiling. The smell of old paper and leather filled every corner of the shop.

  Adrian Vale sat behind the counter, staring at the wall clock.

  10:47 PM.

  The minute hand ticked forward with patient indifference.

  He lifted his mug and took a sip of coffee, only to realize it had already gone cold.

  Typical.

  Night shifts at the bookstore were rarely exciting. Most customers came during the day—students searching for cheap textbooks, collectors hunting rare editions, or tourists who wandered in by accident.

  After sunset, the store belonged mostly to silence.

  Adrian didn’t mind.

  Silence had a structure to it.

  Unlike people.

  He leaned back in his chair and glanced toward the front window. Rain streaked across the glass like blurred handwriting.

  Then he noticed the boxes again.

  Three cardboard boxes sat near the counter, sealed with brittle packing tape.

  Mr. Calder had dropped them off earlier that evening.

  “From an estate auction,” the old man had said before leaving. “Just sort them when you have time.”

  Adrian had plenty of time.

  He grabbed a small box cutter from the drawer and walked over to the first box.

  The tape peeled away with a dry tearing sound.

  Inside were paperbacks stacked tightly together. Cheap romance novels, outdated travel guides, an encyclopedia volume from 1993.

  Nothing unusual.

  He placed them onto the counter and began sorting them into small piles.

  Keep.Discard.Maybe.

  The rain continued tapping softly against the windows.

  The first box took about fifteen minutes to empty.

  Adrian stretched his arms and moved to the second one.

  This box felt heavier.

  Inside were older books—hardcovers with cracked leather spines and faded gold lettering.

  Now this was more interesting.

  This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  He lifted the first one carefully.

  A poetry collection from the 1940s.

  Then a history book about maritime trade routes.

  Then a thick atlas whose pages smelled faintly of mildew.

  Adrian set them aside for cataloguing.

  Near the bottom of the box, something caught his eye.

  A thin black book.

  It looked strangely plain compared to the others.

  No title.

  No author.

  No publisher’s mark.

  Just a matte black cover that absorbed the warm light of the lamp above.

  Adrian frowned slightly.

  “That’s odd.”

  Most books—even obscure ones—had at least some identification.

  Curious, he picked it up.

  The cover felt smooth beneath his fingers, almost warm.

  There were no markings on the spine either.

  He flipped the book over.

  The back cover was just as empty.

  Maybe it was a journal.

  Or an art piece.

  He opened it.

  The paper inside was pale and thick, like handmade parchment.

  At the top of the first page was a line of handwriting.

  Not printed text.

  Handwriting.

  Dark ink, neat and deliberate.

  Adrian leaned closer.

  The words read:

  Adrian ValeDate of Death: Seven Days From Now

  For a moment, Adrian simply stared at the page.

  Then he laughed quietly.

  “Very funny.”

  Somebody must have written it as a joke.

  Maybe a previous owner.

  Or Mr. Calder playing one of his strange pranks.

  Adrian turned the book around, inspecting it again.

  The handwriting looked… familiar.

  He pulled a pen from his pocket and grabbed a scrap receipt from the counter.

  Slowly, he wrote his name.

  Adrian Vale.

  He compared the two.

  The letters were almost identical.

  His stomach tightened slightly.

  Coincidence, he told himself.

  Handwriting similarities happen all the time.

  Still…

  The ink on the page looked strangely fresh.

  As if it had been written recently.

  Adrian frowned and flipped to the next page.

  Blank.

  The page after that.

  Also blank.

  He flipped through the entire book.

  Every page was empty.

  Except the first one.

  “Okay,” he muttered.

  That was weird.

  He closed the book and placed it on the counter.

  The rain outside grew heavier.

  For a while, Adrian continued sorting books from the second box, trying to ignore the black book sitting beside him.

  But his eyes kept drifting back to it.

  Something about it felt…

  wrong.

  Not dangerous.

  Just… aware.

  As if the book were waiting for something.

  Finally, curiosity won.

  Adrian reached over and opened the book again.

  The same first page stared back at him.

  Adrian ValeDate of Death: Seven Days From Now

  He exhaled slowly.

  Still there.

  Of course it was still there.

  Why wouldn’t it be?

  Adrian shook his head and began closing the book again.

  Then he froze.

  Something had changed.

  At the bottom of the page, beneath the original text, another line of handwriting had appeared.

  Adrian was certain it hadn’t been there before.

  The ink was still dark.

  Still wet.

  The new sentence read:

  You finally opened it.

  Adrian’s breath caught in his throat.

  He stared at the words, waiting for them to disappear.

  They didn’t.

  The rain outside seemed suddenly louder.

  The old clock ticked again.

  10:58 PM.

  Adrian slowly looked around the bookstore.

  Empty shelves.

  Silent aisles.

  No one there.

  When he looked back down at the page—

  Another word was forming.

  Ink spreading slowly across the paper.

  Letter by letter.

  As if an invisible hand were writing it.

  Adrian felt the cold crawl up his spine.

  The sentence continued writing itself.

  Good. Now we can begin.