Myra had always believed that books held a kind of magic—a silent power that wove fate into those who dared to read. She often said that books were home, a sanctuary for wandering souls. After all, those who knew the address to a library could live a thousand lives without ever leaving their seat.
But she hadn’t always felt this way.
There was a time when books were nothing more than a pastime to her, an idle distraction for the free moments between reality.
Magic? That was just ink on paper, a fiction within fiction. Until one day, she picked up a book—and everything changed.
Her love affair with words began the moment she felt the weight of a book in her arms, the gravity of its words pressing into her existence. She hadn’t known how something as simple as a phrase could hold the power to alter a person’s life. The library became her second home, her refuge on busy days, and her retreat on slow weekends. She became the kind of soul that refused to return to the life she had once known, for she had discovered the impact of reading and the silent language of stories.
Then, one fateful afternoon, Myra stumbled upon a book unlike any other.
It was buried deep within the library’s forgotten shelves, hidden among dust and shadows, as though the world had chosen to erase its presence. The cover spoke volumes yet remained eerily silent. It was mysterious yet knowingly unknown to the world. That book was magical and still untouched—a kind of magic that was right in front of the world yet hidden, unknown to its existence.
It was titled: "Beyond the Limits of the World."
The words sent a shiver down Myra’s spine. A title too tempting for any book addict to ignore. But what made it truly unusual was that there was no author. No name. No identity. An anonymous piece of literature, as if the one who penned it had vanished into obscurity, leaving behind only their words.
With curiosity enough to even be killed by a cat, Myra held the book and blew the dust off its cover. As she opened the book, the first thing she saw was a warning.
Admonitio [Warning]: "Don't blame the deaths on this book!"
The warning intrigued her. It seemed like an old message, anonymously left by someone. But 'who' had always been a question.
As she flipped through the pages with eager eyes, a letter slipped from its pages and fluttered to the floor. Her heart pounded as she bent down to pick it up.
The letter was addressed to: Anonymous.
---
You were right. When I first held this book, I should have taken the warning seriously. But with my curiosity... I couldn’t stop. I kept reading. And reading. Until the day I understood what it truly held. And I couldn’t help but blame this book for death.
---
As her eyes traced the words on the letter, a stirring sensation curled in her stomach.
Was it fear?
Curiosity?
An irresistible urge to read on?
Or a trembling hesitation, daring her not to?
Yet, amidst the whirlwind of emotions, she remained uncertain of what she truly felt. The feeling was vague, and so was her resolve.
People often told her how unpredictable she was, yet to her astonishment, she always found herself entirely predictable. She still felt that urge to go ahead, to start her journey of reading another book—one that held a death threat within its pages.
She folded the letter carefully and tucked it away before settling into the most secluded corner of the library. With bated breath, she opened the book.
It held mystery. It held adventure. But the most peculiar thing? The characters had no names. They were simply "he" and "she," as if the writer had never believed in the concept of identity.
"Maybe that’s why the book itself is anonymous(with no author)," she murmured.
Or perhaps… it truly had no author at all?
But she knew that was a pointless question. For in a world full of name tags, why would anyone with such potential hide behind the unnamed?
Questions swirled in her mind, but she brushed them aside and delved deeper into the story. Page after page, she read, unaware of how the library faded around her, how time itself seemed to bend under the weight of the words.
And then—
As Myra turned the final page, a shiver ran through her. The weight of the words settled deep within her bones, pressing against something she couldn't name. She gripped the book tightly, her breath uneven.
The letter had spoken the truth.
Something in her had died,
Something inside her had changed- inreversably.
Not in the way she had feared—not a physical end—but a shift, a fracture, an irreversible change. The girl who had picked up this book no longer existed. In her place sat someone else—someone who had read, who had understood, and who could never go back.
She closed the book gently, yet her hands trembled.
This was the new her.
The old Myra was gone.
---
Flashback:
The letter. Behind the letter—
It altered something deep within me. The person I was before is no more. It is still me, yet an unrecognized version of myself.
---
Myra stood and began to leave the library, but suddenly, the air felt colder.
As she walked past the tall mirror near the exit, she stopped.
Her reflection stared back—but something was off. Her clothes were the same. Her posture was familiar. But her eyes... those were not hers.
Something in her had changed forever. And she lost track of what exactly she had lost.
She turned to leave, but something on the floor caught her eye. Something familiar caught her eye.
An envelope.
She thought it would be addressed to Anonymous again. But this time, it was different.
It was from the Anonymous to her-
The same impersonal pronoun that had haunted the book's pages.
A war raged in her stomach—curiosity battling hesitation. She sat down for a moment, trembling yet compelled, and opened the letter.
Her heartbeat quickened.
The urge to leave fought against the growing curiosity twisting in her stomach. Hesitant yet unable to resist, she bent down, picked up the letter, and carefully unfolded it.
The ink was faded, but the words were clear.
---
The Letter:
To the next reader, If you think you chose this book, then you are wrong.
And if you're reading this, it's too late.
Because the book has chosen you.
And soon, you'll understand why.
---
A sharp inhale.
The paper trembled in her grip.
Her gaze flickered toward the book she had returned to the shelf.
Something shifted behind her.
Not a sound. Not a movement. Just a feeling.
Like something watching. Waiting.
Her gaze darted back to the book. The title on the cover flickered, ink shifting as if it were breathing.
It was closed, untouched.
Yet something felt different.
She reached out. Hesitated.
Summoning her courage, she picked up the book again and opened the last page.
Something had changed.
The once-empty page now bore faded ink.
As she traced the words to read, the ground beneath her seemed to vanish.
----
The Last Page:
"Welcome to the story, Myra.
You are the chosen."
----
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