The old library on the edge of town had been abandoned for over thirty years. No one knew exactly when it was closed, but whispers suggested it was due to a strange series of events that happened during the last few months of its operation. The building stood alone, surrounded by tall pines that seemed to lean inward, as if trying to keep the secrets inside. Locals avoided the area, and even the most curious children stayed away after dark. One evening, a young woman named Elara, who had recently moved into the town, found herself drawn to the library. She had heard stories about it, but none of them made sense—just vague mentions of books that moved on their own, shadows that didn't belong to anyone, and voices that echoed through empty halls. She dismissed them as urban legends, but something about the place called to her. She arrived just before sunset, the sky painted in hues of orange and purple. The air was still, almost too quiet. As she approached the library, she noticed that the front door was slightly ajar, though it had been locked for years. That was odd, but not impossible. She pushed it open, and the hinges creaked like a sigh. Inside, the air was cool, carrying the scent of old paper and dust. The floorboards groaned under her feet as she stepped deeper into the building. Shelves lined the walls, filled with books that looked untouched by time. Some were covered in cobwebs, others had titles that were unfamiliar, as if they had never been published. Elara wandered through the aisles, running her fingers along the spines of the books. Then she heard it—a soft, rhythmic tapping, like someone was knocking on the wall. She stopped, heart pounding. The sound came again, louder this time. It wasn’t coming from outside. It was inside the building. She followed the sound, moving cautiously. The tapping led her to a section of the library she hadn’t seen before—a narrow corridor behind a bookshelf. The door at the end of the corridor was slightly open, revealing a dimly lit room. She hesitated, then stepped inside. The room was small, with a single chair and a desk. On the desk sat an old typewriter, its keys yellowed with age. There was a stack of papers beside it, but they were blank. A single light bulb hung from the ceiling, flickering faintly. Elara felt a strange pull, as if the room was waiting for her. She sat down at the desk, the chair creaking beneath her. The typewriter was cold to the touch, but as she placed her hands on the keys, she felt a warmth spread through her fingers. Then, without thinking, she typed a single sentence: "Who are you?" The keys clicked softly, and the words appeared on the page. But it wasn’t her hand that had written them. The sentence read: "I am what remains." Elara’s breath caught in her throat. She looked around, expecting someone to be there, but the room was empty. The tapping resumed, now more insistent, as if the walls themselves were trying to communicate. She tried to leave, but the door had locked behind her. Panic set in. She pounded on the door, shouting for help, but no one answered. The tapping grew louder, more urgent. She turned back to the desk, where the typewriter was now typing on its own. The words flowed rapidly across the page, forming a message she could barely understand. "Time is not linear here. You are not the first. You will not be the last." A chill ran down her spine. She tried to remember how she had gotten there, but the memory was fuzzy, like a dream slipping away. The walls began to shift, the shelves bending, the floor tilting. The air thickened, pressing against her chest. Then, suddenly, she was outside. The door behind her slammed shut, and she stumbled backward, gasping for breath. The sun had set, and the library was now shrouded in darkness. She turned around, but the building was gone. In its place was a field, overgrown and silent. Elara ran home, heart racing, but the feeling of being watched never left her. Days passed, and she tried to forget what had happened. Yet the words from the typewriter haunted her. They weren’t just words—they were a warning. One night, she found herself standing before the library again, though she couldn’t explain how. The door was open once more. This time, she didn’t hesitate. She stepped inside, knowing she would return, no matter what. Because the library wasn’t just a building—it was a place between worlds, and she had already crossed the threshold.