I found it in a dusty corner of the library, a book with no title.

I found it in a dusty corner of the library, a book with no title. Every time I opened it, the words shifted—poetry became riddles, riddles became confessions, confessions turned into chilling threats. I couldn’t stop reading; it felt like the book knew me. Pages whispered my secrets, things I never told anyone. Last night, it mentioned tomorrow’s sunrise would be my last. I burned it, but the ashes reassembled. Now, it waits on my desk, open to a blank page. Pages whispered my secrets, things I never told anyone. Last night, it mentioned tomorrow’s sunrise would be my last. I burned it, but the ashes reassembled. Now, it waits on my desk, open to a blank page.