The old man had a habit of sitting on the same bench every evening, just outside the library. He wore a woolen coat that never seemed to change, and his face was always lined with the same tired expression. No one knew his name, but he was a fixture in the town, like the flickering streetlight that never quite worked properly. The children called him "the Watcher" because he never moved, only watched. It started with the whispers. At first, they were subtle—people talking about how the bench was always empty when they passed by, or how the old man never spoke to anyone. Then came the stories. A teenager claimed she saw him disappear into thin air when she tried to talk to him. A woman swore she heard his voice in her dreams, telling her not to trust the library. Others said that if you sat on the bench for ten minutes, the books in the library would start to rearrange themselves, as if something unseen was guiding them. No one could explain it, but the legend grew. Some believed the old man was a ghost, others thought he was a guardian of secrets. The library itself had a history of odd occurrences—books vanishing, pages turning on their own, and a locked room that no one had ever entered. The librarian, an elderly woman named Ms. Harlow, never spoke of it, but she always kept a watchful eye on the bench. One evening, a new student named Eli arrived in town. He was quiet, curious, and had a fascination with local folklore. He noticed the bench and the old man immediately. That night, he sat down on the bench, despite the cold wind that bit at his skin. He didn't speak, just watched the old man, who seemed to be watching the sky. After a while, the old man finally spoke. His voice was low, like gravel underfoot. “You shouldn’t be here,” he said. “Not yet.” Eli blinked. “Why not?” The old man looked at him, eyes deep and dark. “Because the library is waiting. And it doesn’t like visitors who come too soon.” Eli didn’t understand, but he felt something shift in the air. The wind stopped. The leaves on the trees above the bench froze mid-fall. The world seemed to hold its breath. He asked more questions, but the old man only smiled, a strange, knowing smile. “You’ll find out soon enough,” he said before disappearing into the shadows of the library. The next day, Eli went to the library. He wandered through the aisles, looking for anything unusual. He found nothing at first, but then he noticed a book on the shelf that wasn’t there before. It was titled *The Watcher’s Tale*, and the cover was worn, as though it had been read many times. Curious, he opened it. The pages were filled with strange symbols and diagrams, but the words were written in a language he didn’t recognize. As he read, the room around him began to change. The shelves stretched higher, the light dimmed, and the air grew colder. He closed the book quickly, but the feeling lingered. That night, he returned to the bench. The old man was gone. In his place was a small note, written in the same hand as the book. It read: *“The library remembers. It waits. You are not the first. You will not be the last.”* Eli never spoke of what happened after that. He left the town shortly after, but people still tell the story of the Watcher and the library that holds secrets no one dares to uncover. Some say that if you sit on the bench long enough, you might hear the whispers of those who came before you. Others say that the library isn’t a building at all, but a living thing, and that the old man was once a person just like you—only he stayed too long. And now, the bench is always empty. But sometimes, when the wind is just right, you can hear the faint sound of footsteps approaching, as if someone is coming to take your place.