Every evening at exactly 10:07 PM, the old library in the town of Elmsworth would begin to hum. Not a sound you could hear with your ears, but something that vibrated through the floorboards and settled in your bones. The townspeople had long stopped asking questions about it. They just kept their heads down and walked past the iron gates that creaked open only once a year, on the first day of spring. The library itself was an architectural anomaly, built in the early 1800s by a reclusive architect named Elias Thorn. No one knew where he came from or why he chose such a remote spot, but his work was undeniable—massive stone walls, stained glass that never changed colors, and a central chamber that seemed to stretch beyond its physical dimensions. The books inside were never cataloged, and no one ever left without feeling as though they had forgotten something important. Lila Wren, a young woman who had recently moved to Elmsworth for a fresh start, found herself drawn to the library one rainy afternoon. She had heard whispers of the place from her grandmother, who had always warned her to avoid it after dark. But Lila was not one to be easily frightened. She stepped through the heavy wooden doors, the air growing colder the deeper she went. Inside, the silence was absolute. Dust motes swirled in the dim light, and the scent of aged paper filled her lungs. She wandered through the aisles, running her fingers along the spines of books that bore no titles. Some of them felt warm, others cold, as if they were alive in some strange way. She noticed that the shelves curved slightly, almost like they were leaning in to listen to her thoughts. As she reached the center of the room, a low hum resonated through the floor. She turned around, expecting to see someone else, but the room was empty. Then, without warning, the clock on the far wall struck 10:07. The sound was deep and hollow, echoing off the stone walls like a bell tolling in a cathedral. Suddenly, the lights flickered. A soft glow emanated from the bookshelves, illuminating the titles that had previously been invisible. One book stood out—its cover was black, with a silver symbol that looked like a spiral galaxy. Lila reached for it, and as her fingers touched the surface, a rush of images flooded her mind: a man standing in the same room, a woman weeping, a child laughing, and then darkness. She stumbled back, breathless. The book fell from her hands, landing with a soft thud. When she looked up, the room was different. The shelves had shifted, the windows now faced a direction they hadn’t before. And in the distance, she heard a voice—soft, familiar, and calling her name. Lila ran, heart pounding, out of the library and into the night. She didn’t stop until she reached her small cottage on the edge of town. She locked the door behind her, but the humming still followed her, faint but persistent, like a whisper in the back of her mind. Over the next few weeks, Lila began to notice other strange things. Her dreams were filled with the same scenes from the library—always ending with the same question: “Why did you come back?” She started keeping a journal, trying to make sense of what she had seen, but each entry felt incomplete, as if the words were being erased the moment she wrote them. One night, she decided to return. The gates were open again, and the air outside felt charged, like the world was holding its breath. She entered the library, and this time, the hum was louder. The books glowed softly, and the central chamber was now a vast, circular room with a mirror-like surface on the floor. In the reflection, she saw not herself, but a version of her standing in the same position, eyes wide with recognition. The mirror showed her moving slowly, as if time was stretching. Then, the image shifted. She saw herself walking through the library, but this time, she wasn’t alone. A figure stood beside her, watching, waiting. Lila gasped and stumbled back. The mirror cracked, and the hum turned into a low, mournful sound. She turned to leave, but the doors had vanished. The walls closed in, and the air grew thick with the weight of unseen presence. As she pressed her hands against the stone, she whispered, “Who are you?” For a moment, there was silence. Then, a voice answered—not from the air, but from within her own mind. “Who are you, really?”