In the quiet town of Eldergrove, where fog clung to the hills like a forgotten memory, there was an old library that few dared to enter. It stood at the edge of the woods, its windows clouded with dust and time. The townspeople whispered about it, not out of fear, but because no one could remember who built it or why it remained untouched by time. The library had no official records, no name on the door, just a heavy oak slab with a rusted bell. Those who entered spoke of strange things—books that changed titles overnight, shadows that moved without cause, and a faint whispering in the air that only the most sensitive could hear. But the real mystery was the room at the back, which no one could find unless they were meant to. One autumn evening, a young woman named Elara, a writer with a fascination for the unexplained, found herself drawn to the library. She had heard stories from her grandmother about a hidden room that appeared only to those who truly sought answers. Curiosity overpowered caution, and she pushed open the creaking door. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of old paper and something else—something metallic, like blood. Shelves towered high, their contents covered in cobwebs. Elara walked slowly, her footsteps muffled by the thick carpet that hadn’t been cleaned in decades. She passed rows of books, each more obscure than the last, until she reached a small alcove that seemed to shimmer in the dim light. Behind the alcove, a narrow staircase led downward. The steps were worn smooth, as if many had walked them before. Elara hesitated, then descended. The air grew colder, and the silence deepened. At the bottom, she found a door made of black stone, etched with symbols that pulsed faintly when she touched them. She pushed it open and stepped into a circular chamber. The walls were lined with mirrors, each reflecting a different version of herself. Some showed her younger, others older, and some not human at all. In the center stood a pedestal, upon which rested a single book. Its cover was cracked and dark, and as she opened it, the pages turned themselves, revealing entries written in her own handwriting. The words described events that had not yet happened. A storm that would destroy the town, a man who would vanish without a trace, a child who would be born with eyes like starlight. Each entry felt both familiar and alien, as if she had always known them, yet never remembered. As she read, the whispers returned, louder this time. They spoke in a language she didn’t understand, but their meaning was clear: *You are not the first, and you will not be the last.* Suddenly, the mirrors began to crack, and the temperature dropped further. Elara stumbled back, clutching the book. The door behind her slammed shut, and the room began to spin. She tried to scream, but no sound came out. The last thing she saw was the reflection of a face she didn’t recognize, watching her from the mirror. When the townspeople found the library the next morning, it was empty. No sign of Elara, no traces of the hidden room. The only thing left was the book, now lying open on the floor, its final page blank. Some say the library still stands, waiting for the next seeker, while others believe it was never there at all. And in the quiet corners of Eldergrove, people sometimes swear they hear a voice in the wind, asking, *Do you want to know what comes next?*