The old library was quiet, too quiet. The kind of silence that made the air feel thick, like it had been waiting for something to happen. It sat at the edge of a forgotten town, its windows cracked and its doors warped with age. No one knew who built it, or when, but it had stood there for as long as anyone could remember. The locals called it "The Hollow House," though no one ever went inside. Elias had always been drawn to things that others avoided. He was a historian by trade, but more interested in the stories than the facts. When he heard about the library, he couldn't resist. He found the key tucked behind a loose brick in the wall, as if someone had left it for him. The moment he stepped inside, the air changed. It was colder, heavier, like the walls themselves were holding their breath. The shelves were lined with books that didn’t belong to any known catalog. Some had titles in languages he couldn’t recognize, others had no titles at all. Dust covered everything, but the floor was clean, as if someone had swept it recently. Elias moved deeper into the building, his footsteps echoing in the stillness. Then he saw them—symbols carved into the stone walls, glowing faintly in the dim light. They weren’t just random markings. They formed patterns, spirals, and strange geometric shapes that seemed to shift when he looked away. He reached out to touch one, and the moment his fingers met the stone, a chill ran through him. The symbols pulsed, as if they were alive, and for a brief second, he saw something—a flicker of movement in the shadows, something watching him from the corners of the room. He backed away, heart pounding. The symbols faded, returning to their dull, unremarkable state. He told himself it was just his imagination, but the feeling stayed with him. He spent days in the library, documenting the symbols, sketching them, trying to understand their meaning. He found more symbols in the basement, etched into the floor and ceiling. They formed a map, or a path, leading to a hidden chamber beneath the main hall. When he finally found the entrance, it was sealed with a heavy iron door. A single symbol was carved above it, identical to those he had seen before. He tried to open it, but it wouldn’t budge. Frustrated, he sat on the floor, staring at the symbols, and whispered, "What are you trying to tell me?" A gust of wind suddenly rushed through the chamber, extinguishing his lantern. The symbols glowed again, brighter this time. The air around him shimmered, and he felt a presence—something ancient, something aware. He didn’t run. He didn’t speak. He just watched as the symbols rearranged themselves, forming a new pattern, a message. It said: *You are not the first.* Elias sat frozen, the weight of the words pressing against his chest. He thought of the people who had come before him, the ones who had touched these symbols, who had seen what he now saw. Had they gone mad? Had they disappeared? Or had they understood something he wasn’t ready to grasp? He left the library that night, but the symbols stayed with him. He couldn’t shake the feeling that they were still watching, still waiting. In the weeks that followed, he noticed the same symbols appearing in places where they shouldn’t be—on the sides of buildings, on the pavement, even on his own hands when he woke up in the morning. He began to dream of the library again, but this time, the symbols weren’t just on the walls. They were on the people, on the trees, on the sky itself. And in every dream, the same question echoed in his mind: *Who are you really?* One morning, he found a note slipped under his door. It was written in the same symbols, but this time, they were clear, easy to read. It said: *You have seen the truth. Now choose your path.* Elias stared at the note, then at the symbols on his hands. He didn’t know if he had chosen a path, or if the path had already chosen him. He only knew that the library would never let him go. It had marked him, just as it had marked so many before. And somewhere, deep in the dark, the symbols were still waiting.