Every evening at exactly 7:13 PM, the old clock in the abandoned library of Blackthorn Hollow would tick twice. No one knew why. The townspeople called it a superstition, a relic of a forgotten time when people believed in things that couldn’t be explained. But for those who lived near the library, the sound was more than just a noise—it was a whisper from another world. The library had been closed for over thirty years, its windows boarded up and its doors locked with rusted chains. Yet, every night, the clock ticked. Some claimed they could hear it even through the thick walls, as if the building itself was alive, breathing in the silence of the town. Others said the sound came from inside, echoing through empty halls where no one had walked in decades. Lila, a young woman who had moved to Blackthorn Hollow to escape the noise of the city, found herself drawn to the library one rainy afternoon. She had heard the stories, of course—how the townsfolk avoided the place, how the wind howled differently around it, and how sometimes, if you stood still long enough, you could feel something watching you. But she wasn’t afraid. She was curious. She approached the library with her flashlight in hand, the beam cutting through the darkness like a blade. The door creaked open as if it had been waiting for her. Inside, the air was thick with dust and the scent of old paper. The floorboards groaned under her feet as she stepped into the main hall. The clock tower loomed above, its hands frozen at 7:12. But as she looked up, the second hand twitched forward—once, then twice. She froze. The clock had just ticked twice. But the time was still 7:12. She turned slowly, scanning the room. There were no other sounds, no movement. Just the heavy silence of the building, pressing against her ears. Then, from the far end of the hall, she saw it—a flicker of light. Not from the flashlight, but from somewhere else. It danced along the shelves, illuminating books she didn’t recognize, their spines cracked and faded. She took a step closer. The light seemed to follow her, always just out of reach. When she reached the shelf, the light vanished. The books were gone. In their place was a single, blank page lying on the floor. She picked it up, and as she did, the words began to form—written in her own handwriting. *"You are not alone."* Her breath caught. She looked around again, but the library was empty. The clock ticked once more, this time at 7:13. And then, the lights went out. When she finally made it back to her house, she couldn’t shake the feeling that something had changed. The next day, she returned to the library, determined to find answers. But when she arrived, the door was locked. No one had seen anyone enter or leave. The townspeople were surprised she had even tried to go in. She asked the librarian, an old man named Mr. Hargrove, who had worked there before the closure. He gave her a strange look. "You don’t want to go in there," he said. "That place isn’t meant for the living." But Lila had already seen too much. She spent the following nights trying to find the source of the clock’s ticking. She followed the sound through the town, through alleys and overgrown paths, until she reached the edge of the woods. There, hidden behind a thicket of brambles, was a small, weather-worn bench. A plaque on it read: *To the ones who listen.* She sat down. The clock ticked. The wind whispered through the trees. And then, for the first time, she heard a voice—not from the clock, but from the air itself. *"You have heard us. Now, will you stay?"* The words echoed in her mind, not spoken aloud, but felt. She didn’t know if it was real or if she was losing her mind. But as the sun dipped below the horizon, the clock ticked once more, and the world around her seemed to shift. She never went back to the library again. But sometimes, in the quiet hours of the night, she would wake up to the sound of a clock ticking at 7:13. And each time, she wondered if the library had chosen her—or if she had simply become part of its story.