Every morning at exactly 5:47 a.m., the old clock in the corner of the abandoned library would tick, but no one was there to hear it. The building had stood empty for over thirty years, its windows cracked and its doors warped by time. No one knew who had built it or why it had been left to rot, but those who passed by on the winding road often swore they could hear the sound of pages turning, even when the wind wasn’t blowing. Lila had always been drawn to the place. She was a quiet woman in her early thirties, a collector of forgotten things, and she had a habit of wandering through places that others avoided. One autumn evening, as the sky turned the color of bruised fruit, she found herself standing before the library’s iron gates, which creaked open as if expecting her. The air smelled of damp wood and something faintly sweet, like old flowers. Inside, the silence was thick. Dust motes danced in the shafts of light that filtered through broken panes. The books were all still on their shelves, though some had tilted slightly, as if they had been rearranged overnight. Lila ran her fingers along the spines, feeling the texture of leather and paper, and then stopped when she reached a section labeled “The Forgotten.” There, nestled between volumes of poetry and folklore, was a book with no title, its cover made of a material that felt neither paper nor cloth. She opened it carefully, and the pages were blank. But as she turned them, strange symbols began to appear, glowing faintly in the dim light. They looked like ancient script, but not quite. The words formed shapes that seemed to shift when she looked away. A chill crept up her spine, but she couldn’t stop reading. On the third page, a single sentence appeared: *You are not alone.* Lila closed the book and sat down on the cold floor, heart pounding. She had read enough ghost stories to know that this wasn’t normal. Yet, something about the library called to her. She returned every day after that, each time finding new entries in the book—fragments of conversations, names of people she didn’t recognize, and dates that matched events she had never heard of. It was as if the book was recording something, but from where? One night, she stayed late, determined to find out. The clock in the corner chimed 5:47 again, but this time, the sound was accompanied by a whisper. It wasn’t loud, just a soft voice, barely audible. Lila froze. “Who’s there?” she asked, her own voice trembling. No answer. Just the whisper, growing clearer. “You’ve seen the truth.” She turned slowly, scanning the room. The shadows seemed deeper, more defined, as if they were alive. Then, she noticed the book open on the table beside her, and the pages were now filled with her own handwriting. She hadn’t written them. Her hands trembled as she read what was written: *They have been waiting for someone like you.* A sudden gust of wind blew through the library, extinguishing the lantern she had lit. Darkness swallowed the room. Lila stumbled backward, tripping over a chair. As she fell, she caught a glimpse of movement in the far corner—a figure, tall and thin, its face obscured by shadow. It didn’t move, but it watched her. When she finally managed to light the lantern again, the figure was gone. But the book was open, and the last line read: *You will return tomorrow.* She didn’t. Not for a week. When she finally came back, the library was locked, the gate firmly closed. She tried to force it open, but the hinges wouldn’t budge. As she stood there, defeated, she heard the whisper again, softer this time, almost like a sigh. *You already know.* She never saw the book again. But sometimes, in the quiet moments of the night, she would hear the clock ticking at 5:47, and feel the presence of something watching, waiting. She never told anyone what she had seen, but she kept the memory close, a secret that lingered like the scent of old paper and forgotten dreams. And deep inside the library, beneath layers of dust and time, the book remained, waiting for the next reader.