Ava named the cat Ink.
He followed her everywhere—from the kitchen to the attic, his green eyes always watching. At night, he curled at the foot of her bed, purring softly. She found it strangely comforting.
Days passed, and Ava tested the book again and again. Small things at first: better weather, a delicious lunch, a dreamless night of sleep. Everything she wrote came true by the next day, sometimes within hours.
But questions grew in her mind. Why did the book exist? Who had owned it before? Were there limits?
One evening, she flipped to the back, hoping for a hidden clue. That's when she noticed it—an extra page thicker than the rest, sealed along the edges. She gently tugged, and the seam gave way, revealing a hidden compartment. Inside was a yellowed slip of parchment, written in faded ink:
Rules of the Book of Binding
What is written will come to pass.
Wishes must be specific, or consequences shall decide.
Do not wish for death, or death shall wish for you.
The book feeds from use. The more it grants, the more it hungers.
Nothing is given without cost.
Ava's stomach dropped.
She read the rules again. And again. Her fingers trembled.
"The more it grants, the more it hungers."
Had anything bad happened yet? She thought hard. Then she remembered—Grandma's favorite glass figurine had shattered on its own. The strange creaking in the attic. Ink's hiss when she made her last wish.
And just that morning, she'd found a dead bird on the porch, its feathers singed at the edges.
Ava closed the book.
The cat leapt up beside her and stared.
"I need to be more careful," she whispered.
Ink blinked slowly.
But in the silence that followed, Ava could've sworn she heard something—
A whisper.
Coming from the book.