In the far corner of an old attic, hidden beneath dust and forgotten things, lies a book that was never meant to be found.
I wasn't looking for anything that night. The attic was only a place to store what we no longer needed—broken chairs, old trunks, memories packed into boxes no one planned to open again. The air smelled of wood and time. Every step sent dust drifting through the light like something alive.
The book was wrapped in cloth.
That alone made it strange. Everything else up there had been left uncovered, abandoned without care. But this—this had been hidden. Deliberately. Tucked beneath a collapsed shelf, pressed so far into the shadows that I might have missed it if the corner of the fabric hadn't caught the light.
It was heavier than it looked.
There was no title on the cover. No author's name. Just worn leather and faint markings that felt unfamiliar, like symbols remembered from a dream rather than read. When I opened it, the pages didn't creak the way old books usually do. They turned easily, as if they had been waiting.
The first page didn't explain anything.
It simply began to tell a story.