The sky above the village of Elmsworth was always gray. Not the stormy kind, but a soft, melancholic gray
like a faded painting. It was in this forgotten village, tucked between endless hills and whispering woods, that
sixteen-year-old Clara found herself every summer. Her grandmother, Edeline, was the last living soul in the
old manor on Primrose Hill.
Clara had always been curious. Even as a child, she noticed the subtle shift in the air around her grandmother's
home-the creaking of doors that should have stayed shut, the low hum of voices behind the walls, and most of
all, the key that hung around Edeline's neck.
"This key opens nothing of interest," Edeline would say, always with a distant look in her eyes.
But Clara knew better.
One rainy afternoon, while her grandmother napped, Clara wandered into the east wing of the manor-a place
she had been forbidden to enter. The door creaked open with surprising ease. Dust danced in the shafts of light
that broke through the boarded windows, and the air smelled of ink and forgotten parchment.
Then she saw it-a door of black walnut with carvings of owls and ivy, and at its center, a keyhole that seemed
to call her forward. With a shaky hand, Clara reached for the key she had taken while her grandmother slept. It
fit perfectly.
The door groaned open to reveal a vast, domed room. Shelves stretched beyond what the eye could see, each
one brimming with books of every color, size, and age. A library. But not just any library-this one hummed
with life. The books whispered, pages turned themselves, and strange lights flitted through the air.