The attic door had never opened easily.
Cassia stood at the base of the ladder, one hand on the pull cord, the other still trembling from the library. The image of the cloaked figure lingered behind her eyes, sharp as glass. She had blinked, and he was gone. But the feeling hadn't left her. That cold pressure in her chest. That sense of being seen.
She pulled the cord.
The ladder groaned as it unfolded, each rung creaking like old bones. Dust drifted down in lazy spirals, catching in her throat. She coughed once, then again, and wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her sweater.
The attic was dark. Not just unlit—dark. The kind of dark that felt like it had weight. She climbed slowly, each step a whisper of wood and breath.
At the top, she paused.
The air was different here. Still, but not quiet. It felt like something was holding its breath.
She stepped inside.
Boxes lined the walls, stacked high and uneven. Old furniture leaned against the far corners—an armless chair, a cracked mirror, a lamp with no bulb. The floor was coated in a fine layer of dust, undisturbed for years.
Except for one spot.
Near the center of the room, something had been moved. The dust was broken, scattered in a wide circle. At its heart sat a bundle wrapped in faded velvet.
Cassia's pulse quickened.
She knelt beside it, fingers hovering just above the fabric. It looked like it had been waiting for her. Not placed. Not dropped. Just… waiting.
She unwrapped it.
A book.
Thick. Leather-bound. No title. No markings.
She opened it.
The first page was blank.
The second was not.
Her breath caught.
The same symbols. The same curling ink. And beneath them, in a hand she did not recognize, her name.
Cassia.
She touched the page. It was warm.
The ink shimmered faintly, as if aware of her gaze.
She flipped through the rest of the book. Most of the pages were empty. A few held fragments—half-formed symbols, smudged lines, a single word in a language she didn't know.
She closed the book and sat back on her heels.
The attic was silent again.
But something had changed.
She could feel it.
—
She didn't go back downstairs right away.
Instead, she sat on the attic floor, the book in her lap, and listened.
To the creaks in the wood. To the wind pressing against the roof. To the faint hum that seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere at once.
She thought of Lucy.
Her face in the dream. Her voice. The way she had said 'Magland is real' like it was a secret and a warning.
Cassia had not seen her in years. Not since the day she vanished.
One moment they were walking home from school. The next, Lucy was gone.
No one had believed her.
They said Lucy had moved. That her family had left town. That she must have misunderstood.
But Cassia remembered.
The way Lucy had looked at her that last day. Like she wanted to say something but couldn't. Like she was already halfway gone.
Cassia pressed her forehead to her knees.
She didn't cry.
She just sat there, breathing in the dust and the dark, the book heavy in her arms.
—
Later, she made tea.
The kettle hissed on the stove, steam curling into the air. She poured the water slowly, watching it swirl in the cup, the color blooming like ink in water.
She carried the cup to the kitchen table and sat down.
The book lay open beside her.
She stared at the page with her name, trying to make sense of it.
Why her?
Why now?
And where had the page gone?
She reached for her notebook, flipped through it again. Nothing. Just her notes, her sketches, the half-finished essay for Professor Lin.
The page was gone.
But the book had found her.
Or maybe it had always been here.
She sipped her tea. It was too hot, but she didn't care.
Outside, the rain had started again. Soft, steady. The kind of rain that made the world feel smaller, quieter.
She closed her eyes.
And for a moment, she thought she heard something.
A whisper.
Not in her ears.
In her bones.
She opened her eyes.
The book was glowing.
Just faintly.
Just enough to make her breath catch.
She reached for it.
And the lights went out.