The old man found the symbols in the attic of his late grandfather’s house. It was a place he hadn’t visited since the funeral, and the air inside felt heavier than usual—thick with dust and the scent of forgotten time. The attic had always been a mystery to him, filled with trunks and boxes that no one had ever opened. But when he stumbled upon a small wooden chest hidden behind a stack of yellowed newspapers, something about it made his skin prickle. Inside the chest were not the expected relics of a bygone era. Instead, there were pages covered in strange, intricate symbols, some drawn in ink, others etched into the wood itself. They seemed to shimmer faintly under the dim light, as if they were alive in some way. The old man traced a finger over one of the markings, and for a moment, he swore he felt a cold shiver travel up his arm. He took the pages home, placing them on his desk where he could study them at night. At first, he thought they were just an elaborate form of art, but as days passed, he noticed patterns emerging. Some symbols repeated in clusters, while others appeared to follow a rhythm, like a song without a melody. He began to sketch them in his notebook, trying to decipher their meaning, though nothing made sense. One evening, as he sat alone in his study, the symbols on the page seemed to shift slightly, as if the ink had moved on its own. He blinked, thinking it was a trick of the light, but when he looked again, they were exactly where they had been. He turned off the lamp and sat in the dark, staring at the paper. A sudden gust of wind blew through the window, and the pages fluttered. When he reached out to steady them, he noticed that one of the symbols had changed—its lines now curved in a different direction. That night, he dreamt of a place he didn’t recognize. It was a forest of towering trees with bark that gleamed like polished obsidian. The ground was soft and cool beneath his feet, and the air hummed with a low, resonant sound. In the distance, figures moved silently, their shapes blurred and indistinct. He tried to call out, but his voice wouldn’t come. Then, from the shadows, a voice whispered in a language he didn’t understand, but somehow knew. When he awoke, his hands were stained with ink, and the symbols on the page had altered once more. This time, they were more defined, more deliberate. He couldn’t explain how or why, but he felt certain that the symbols were responding to him, learning from him, as if they were alive in some way. He started to notice other changes too—objects in his apartment would move slightly when he wasn’t looking, and the clock on the wall sometimes ticked backward. He began to research the symbols, searching online for any mention of similar markings. What he found was unsettling. There were references to ancient civilizations that had vanished without a trace, cultures that spoke of “the Keepers of the Mark,” beings who could communicate through symbols that transcended language. Some accounts described people who had seen these symbols and then disappeared, never to be heard from again. But the old man wasn’t afraid. He was fascinated. Each day, he added more to his notes, trying to connect the dots between the symbols and the dreams. He started to feel a presence in the room, not hostile, but watchful. It was as if the symbols were guiding him toward something, revealing a path that only he could see. One night, he found a new symbol among the others—a spiral, surrounded by smaller, interlocking shapes. When he traced it with his finger, a warmth spread through his chest, and for a brief moment, he saw a flash of another world: a city of floating stones, a sky filled with twin moons, and a great door standing at the edge of the horizon. He didn’t know what it meant, but he knew he had to go there. Not physically, but somewhere deeper, beyond the veil of the known. The symbols had opened a door, and now he stood on the threshold, unsure whether he was being called or led. As he closed his notebook, the last symbol on the page flickered, then vanished. The silence that followed was thick, heavy, and full of possibility. He didn’t know if he had unlocked something or simply stepped into a story that had already begun. But as he sat there, staring at the empty space where the symbol had been, he wondered if the symbols had always been waiting for someone to find them—and if he had been chosen.