Every evening at exactly 8:17, the old library in the village of Hollowbrook would hum with a sound no one could explain. It wasn’t the creak of floorboards or the whisper of wind through cracks—it was something deeper, like the echo of a memory that had never been lived. The townspeople spoke of it in hushed tones, but no one dared to investigate. The library itself was an odd place, built in the 1800s by a reclusive architect who vanished shortly after its completion. Its architecture defied logic—corridors twisted in ways that made sense only when viewed from certain angles, and some books on the shelves seemed to shift positions overnight. No one knew how many rooms were inside, because whenever someone tried to map it out, they always ended up back where they started. One autumn evening, a young woman named Elara, who had recently moved to Hollowbrook, decided to explore the library. She had heard the stories, of course, but she was more curious than afraid. Her grandmother had once told her that the library was a place where time didn’t behave as it should. Elara had dismissed it as folklore, but now, with the chill of early November in the air, she felt drawn to the building like a moth to a flame. She stepped inside just before 8:17. The air was thick with the scent of aged paper and dust. The light from the windows filtered through the stained glass, casting strange patterns on the floor. As she walked down the main corridor, the silence was almost deafening. Then, without warning, the humming began. It was low and resonant, like the sound of a distant bell. Elara stopped, her breath catching in her throat. She looked around, expecting to see someone else, but the library was empty. The sound grew stronger, vibrating in her bones. She turned a corner and found herself in a small reading room filled with books that had no titles. The books were bound in materials she couldn’t identify—some felt like leather, others like silk, and one even had a texture similar to living skin. Elara reached out and touched one of the books. The moment her fingers made contact, the humming stopped. A soft glow pulsed from the cover, and the pages flipped open by themselves. Inside, the text was written in a language she didn’t recognize, but as she read, the words formed images in her mind. She saw a man standing in the same room, his face blurred, holding a book like the one she now held. He looked around, confused, then disappeared into the shadows. The book snapped shut, and the humming returned, louder this time. Elara stumbled back, her heart pounding. She turned to leave, but the door had vanished. In its place was a tall mirror, reflecting not her image, but a different version of herself—older, with eyes that gleamed like polished obsidian. The reflection smiled and waved. Panic surged through her, but she forced herself to stay calm. She remembered her grandmother’s words about time and the library. Maybe this was a test, or a message. She took a deep breath and stepped closer to the mirror. “Who are you?” she whispered. The reflection tilted its head. “I am what you could have been,” it said, its voice echoing from all directions. “But you must choose.” Before she could respond, the mirror shattered, and the library was plunged into darkness. When the lights flickered back on, the room was empty again, the books closed and silent. Elara stood alone, her hands trembling. She ran from the library, not stopping until she reached the edge of the village. Behind her, the building loomed like a forgotten dream, its windows glowing faintly as if watching her. She never returned, but sometimes, in the quiet hours of the night, she would hear the humming again—faint, distant, but unmistakable. No one ever found out what happened to the books or the man in the mirror. Some say the library still exists, hidden between the folds of time, waiting for someone brave enough to step inside. Others claim it was never real, just a trick of the mind. But Elara knows the truth. She knows that time is not a straight path, but a labyrinth, and that every choice leaves a mark—sometimes in places that don’t exist, but always in the soul.