The old library was said to be abandoned, but no one really knew for sure. It stood at the edge of a quiet town, its windows boarded up and its door locked with a rusted chain that had long since stopped holding anything back. The locals whispered about strange noises coming from inside, like pages turning on their own or the soft echo of footsteps in empty halls. Most people avoided it, but a few, like Clara, couldn’t help but wonder. Clara was an art student who had always been drawn to forgotten places. She found beauty in decay, in the stories hidden beneath layers of dust and time. One rainy afternoon, she decided to investigate the library. The rain pattered against the roof as she pushed open the creaking door, the scent of damp paper and mildew filling her nose. Inside, the air was thick with silence, broken only by the occasional drip of water from the ceiling. She wandered through the aisles of dusty books, her fingers brushing over spines that crumbled at the slightest touch. Then she noticed them—symbols carved into the wooden shelves, faint and almost imperceptible. They were not like any script she had ever seen, curling and twisting in patterns that seemed to shift when she looked away. Her heart quickened. She pulled out her phone and took a photo, but the image came out blurry, as if the camera couldn’t capture the markings properly. As she explored deeper, the symbols became more frequent, appearing on walls, floorboards, even the backs of bookshelves. Some looked like constellations, others like ancient runes. She felt a strange pull, as though the library itself was guiding her. She found a small room at the back, its door slightly ajar. Inside, there was a desk covered in papers, and on the wall behind it, a large circle etched into the wood, surrounded by the same symbols she had seen throughout the building. She stepped closer, tracing the lines with her fingertips. The moment her skin touched the wood, a chill ran down her spine. The symbols glowed faintly, just for a second, before fading back to nothing. She stumbled back, heart pounding. Was it her imagination? Or had something truly responded? The next day, she returned, determined to find answers. This time, she brought a notebook and a flashlight. She spent hours studying the symbols, sketching them, trying to make sense of their meaning. She found a journal tucked behind a stack of books, its pages filled with notes in a language that wasn’t quite English. There were references to “the watchers,” “the silent ones,” and “the door between worlds.” The last entry was dated over a hundred years ago, written in a shaky hand: *They are still here. Watching. Waiting.* Clara left the library that day with a mix of excitement and unease. She couldn’t stop thinking about the symbols, the way they seemed to pulse with a life of their own. She began researching ancient languages and forgotten myths, searching for any connection to what she had seen. But the more she learned, the more questions arose. One night, she dreamed of the library again. This time, she wasn’t alone. Figures moved in the shadows, their faces obscured, their eyes glowing faintly. They pointed to the symbols on the walls, whispering in a language she almost understood. When she woke, her hands were stained with ink, and the symbols from the library were now scrawled across her arms, glowing softly in the dim light of her apartment. She tried to erase them, but they wouldn’t come off. They pulsed with a quiet energy, as if they had become part of her. The dreams continued, each one more vivid than the last. She began to see the symbols everywhere—in the cracks of the pavement, in the patterns of leaves, even in the reflection of her own eyes. Eventually, she realized the truth. The symbols weren’t just carvings. They were a message, a warning. A bridge between worlds. And she had crossed it without realizing it. Now, every time she looks in the mirror, she sees something different—something watching back. The question lingers: was she ever really alone? Or had the library always been waiting for someone like her?