Every morning at 7:13, the clock in the old library would stop. Not just stop, but freeze—its hands locked in a perfect circle, as if time itself had taken a breath and forgotten to exhale. No one could explain it. The librarians, who had worked there for decades, never spoke of it. They simply replaced the clock with a new one, each time more worn than the last, as though time had no interest in being corrected. The library was built in the early 1900s, its walls thick with dust and secrets. The books were arranged in a way that seemed deliberate, almost like a labyrinth. Some shelves had titles that didn’t match their contents—books about ancient civilizations hidden behind novels of romance, or history textbooks filled with blank pages. The air always smelled faintly of ink and decay, and the floorboards creaked when no one was walking on them. One day, a young woman named Elara arrived, drawn by the rumors of the strange clock. She had always been fascinated by time, how it moved, how it slipped through fingers like sand. She had studied physics, but nothing prepared her for what she found in the library. She asked the librarian, an elderly man with eyes like polished stone, about the clock. “It’s not a clock,” he said, his voice low. “It’s a door.” Elara frowned. “A door?” He nodded. “You can’t see it, but it’s there. When the hands still, you can step through. But only if you’re ready.” She didn’t believe him. She thought he was eccentric, perhaps even mad. But the next morning, at 7:13, the clock stopped again. This time, she stayed. She watched the second hand pause, then the minute and hour hands follow. The room grew colder, and the shadows stretched longer, as if the light itself was bending. Then, she heard a whisper. It wasn’t from anyone in the room. It came from the bookshelves, from the silence between the words. She turned slowly, her heart pounding. The books began to shift, rearranging themselves without a breeze, without a hand. One shelf opened, revealing a narrow passage that hadn’t been there before. A hallway of mirrors, each reflecting different versions of herself—some older, some younger, some with eyes that weren’t quite right. She stepped forward, and the mirrors flickered. In one, she saw herself reading a book that wasn’t in the library. In another, she was standing outside, looking at the building from the street, but the sign read "Closed." In yet another, she was gone entirely, replaced by a shadow that looked exactly like her. She turned back, but the passage had vanished. The clock ticked again, and the library returned to normal. The books were back in place, the air warm once more. She tried to remember what had happened, but the details blurred, like a dream slipping away upon waking. Over the following weeks, she returned every morning at 7:13. Each time, the clock stopped, and each time, something changed. Sometimes the books were different, sometimes the walls had cracks that hadn’t been there before. Once, she saw a child running through the aisles, laughing, but when she turned, the child was gone, and the books around her were now titled with names she didn’t recognize. She began to notice other anomalies. A man who appeared at the same time every day, sitting in a chair that wasn’t there the day before. A cat that never left the library, though no one else saw it. A scent of lavender that lingered even after the windows were closed. One evening, she found a journal hidden behind a row of books. The pages were filled with notes in a handwriting that matched her own. The entries described her visits, her confusion, and a growing sense of unease. The final entry was dated the day before she found the journal. She realized then that she wasn’t the first to walk this path. Someone else had come before her, and they had left a message. Or perhaps it was a warning. As the days passed, the anomalies became more frequent. The clock no longer stopped at 7:13. It stopped at different times, sometimes minutes apart, sometimes hours. The library itself seemed to pulse, as if it were alive, aware of her presence. On the final morning, she arrived early, hoping to catch the moment. The clock ticked normally, but then, without warning, it began to spin wildly. The hands twisted in circles, the glass cracked, and the entire room trembled. She felt a pull, a force that pulled her toward the center of the library. When she reached it, she saw a doorway—not made of wood or stone, but of light and shadow. It pulsed gently, inviting her in. She hesitated, knowing that whatever lay beyond might change her forever. She stepped through. The world shifted. Time fractured. She saw herself in multiple moments, overlapping and colliding. She was a child, a woman, a ghost. She was everywhere and nowhere. And then, silence. No sound. No light. Just a deep, endless quiet. Somewhere, in another version of the library, the clock stops again. The hands freeze. And the door opens once more.