Every evening at exactly 8:17, the old clock in the abandoned library would chime, even though it had not worked for over thirty years. No one knew who had built the library or why it stood alone on the edge of a forgotten town, but those who dared to enter always left with strange stories and an unshakable feeling that something was watching them. The library itself was a relic of another time—its wooden shelves groaned under the weight of dust-covered books, and the air smelled of damp paper and forgotten memories. The only light came from a single window high above, casting long shadows across the floor like silent sentinels. It was said that the librarian, a woman named Clara, had vanished without a trace decades ago, leaving behind only her desk, a cup of cold tea, and a journal filled with indecipherable symbols. One summer afternoon, a young man named Eli wandered into the library, drawn by the sound of the clock chiming. He had heard rumors about the place, but they were just stories told around campfires, nothing more. Yet as he stepped through the creaking door, the temperature dropped, and the silence became thick, pressing against his skin like a second layer. He moved slowly through the aisles, running his fingers along the spines of the books. Some titles were written in languages he didn’t recognize, while others were faded and crumbling. At the far end of the room, he noticed a small table with a single chair. On it sat a candle, its wax dripping unevenly, and a note that read: “You are not alone.” Eli laughed nervously, thinking it was a prank. But as he turned to leave, the clock struck 8:17 again. This time, the sound was deeper, almost mournful. He froze. The candle flickered wildly, and the shadows on the wall seemed to shift, forming shapes that weren’t there before. He tried to walk away, but the door slammed shut behind him. The air grew colder, and the scent of old books turned metallic, like blood. Eli’s breath came in short gasps as he looked around, searching for an escape. Then he saw it—a faint glow coming from the back of the library, where the shelves curved into a narrow passage. Curiosity overpowered fear, and he stepped forward. The passage was narrower than it appeared, and the walls pressed in on either side. At the end, there was a door, slightly ajar. Inside, the room was smaller, dimly lit by a single bulb hanging from the ceiling. A mirror stood in the center, its surface dark and cracked. Eli approached it cautiously. As he reached out, his reflection did not move. He pulled his hand back, heart pounding. Then, the mirror began to ripple, like water disturbed by a stone. In the glass, he saw a figure standing behind him, tall and thin, wearing a long coat that shimmered like smoke. The figure tilted its head, and Eli felt a chill crawl up his spine. He turned around, but the room was empty. The mirror remained unchanged, but now it reflected his face with an eerie smile. He stumbled back, knocking over a stack of books. The sound echoed through the quiet space, and suddenly, the library was no longer silent. Whispers filled the air, voices speaking in a language he didn’t understand, yet he felt their meaning deep in his bones. Then, the clock chimed again. 8:17. The lights flickered, and the door burst open. Eli ran, not knowing if he was being chased or if he was simply trying to escape himself. He emerged into the night, gasping for breath, the library behind him now just a shadow on the horizon. Days passed, and Eli tried to forget what he had seen. But the dreams began. Each night, he found himself back in the library, standing before the mirror, watching the figure in the glass. It never spoke, but it always smiled. And every time, the clock struck 8:17. One morning, he found a new note on his desk, written in the same shaky handwriting as before: “You will return.” Eli stared at the words, unsure if he had written them himself. The clock in the library still chimed at 8:17, and the whispers still echoed in the silence. But now, he wondered—was it the library that called him, or was it something else, something waiting for someone to listen?