Every evening at exactly 7:13 PM, the old library on the edge of town would hum with a low, resonant sound. No one knew where it came from, but those who had lived in the town for years swore that it had always been there. The building was decades old, its wooden floors warped and creaking, its windows clouded with dust. It had long since closed to the public, but the sound persisted, as if the structure itself was breathing. Lila, a quiet woman in her late thirties, had moved into the town just months before. She had come to escape something she never spoke of, though the townspeople noticed how she kept to herself, how she avoided the library like it was cursed. Still, curiosity got the better of her. One rainy afternoon, she found herself standing before the heavy oak doors, the rain dripping from her coat as she stared at the faded sign that read "Evergreen Library." She pushed the door open, and the sound hit her immediately—a soft, humming vibration that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. The air inside was cool and still, carrying the scent of old paper and mildew. Dust motes floated lazily in the shafts of light that filtered through the high, narrow windows. As she walked deeper into the library, she noticed something strange. The books were arranged in no particular order, some stacked haphazardly on the floor, others missing their spines. The shelves were lined with titles she didn’t recognize, their covers worn and cracked. At the far end of the room, there was a single desk, covered in yellowed papers and ink stains. A chair sat behind it, empty, as if someone had just left. Lila approached the desk, her fingers brushing over the papers. They were filled with notes in an unfamiliar script, some of them accompanied by sketches of strange symbols and diagrams. She tried to make sense of them, but they seemed to shift when she looked away, as if they were alive. At 7:13 PM, the humming grew louder, and the temperature in the room dropped. Lila felt a chill crawl up her spine, but she didn’t leave. Instead, she sat down in the chair, her heart pounding. The sound swirled around her, not loud, but insistent, like a whisper just beyond hearing. Then, the lights flickered. The overhead bulbs dimmed, casting the room into a ghostly blue glow. Lila’s breath caught in her throat. The books on the shelves began to move, slowly at first, then faster, as if they were being guided by an invisible hand. The pages turned on their own, flipping through stories that hadn’t been read in decades. A single book slid off the shelf and landed in front of her. It was bound in black leather, its cover embossed with a symbol that pulsed faintly in the dim light. Lila opened it, and the words inside weren’t written—they were etched into the page, glowing softly as if lit from within. The text spoke of a place called "The Threshold," a liminal space between worlds where time bent and reality wavered. It described rituals and warnings, but also a promise: those who entered could see what lay beyond. Lila’s hands trembled as she read. When the clock struck 7:14, the humming stopped. The books fell silent. The air returned to normal, and the room felt empty again, as if nothing had happened. Lila stood, clutching the book tightly, her mind racing. She left the library that night, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that something had changed. The townspeople noticed it too—how she now wore a faint smile, how her eyes seemed to hold secrets. Some said she had gone mad. Others whispered that she had seen something she wasn’t meant to. But the humming continued, every evening at 7:13 PM. And the library remained open, waiting for the next person to step inside. What lies beyond the threshold? And why does the library call only certain people? No one knows. But the sound keeps playing, and the books keep turning, as if waiting for someone to listen.