The library had always been Diana’s refuge—a quiet cathedral of thought, tucked away behind the university’s more modern buildings. The structure itself was ancient, with towering stained-glass windows and the kind of musty scent that wrapped itself around you like an old scarf. Most students avoided it, preferring the sleek, tech-friendly reading rooms on the main campus. But Diana loved it here, among the forgotten.

She had been shelving old literature texts when she found it.

The book wasn’t on her cart. It sat alone on a reading table, as though someone had left it there minutes ago, though the rest of the library was empty. Its cracked spine bore no title, and the leather binding was scratched in a way that made it look more like skin than hide.

Curious, she reached for it.

The pages crackled when she opened it. Most were blank, except for the occasional faint scribble or smudge of ink. But about halfway through, something changed.

There, scrawled across a single yellowed page, in ink that shimmered ever so slightly beneath the overhead lights, were the words:

“This world is not the only one you’ve walked.”

Diana blinked.

She ran her fingers gently over the words. The ink was slightly raised, like it had been etched into the page. Her breath caught. Below the sentence, in smaller, hurried writing, was something else:

“Find the mirror. The one that doesn’t show your reflection.”

She looked around. The library seemed suddenly larger, more cavernous. Shadows pooled in corners that hadn’t been there before. The sound of the rain against the stained glass had quieted, replaced by a soft rustling—like pages turning far away.

Diana shut the book and turned it over. No library barcode. No Dewey label. Not even a publisher’s mark.

It shouldn’t be here.

Yet, it felt like it had been waiting for her.

Over the next week, Diana couldn’t stop thinking about the message. Every time she opened the book again, the message changed slightly, as if someone—or something—was updating it.

One day it read: “The mirror sees the soul, not the skin.”

The next: “You’re getting closer.”

Then: “Don’t trust the man with the key. He doesn’t remember what he guards.”

It was madness. And yet, it pulled her in.

On the seventh day, while walking through a disused wing of the library’s basement, she found the mirror.

It hung crookedly at the end of a narrow hallway she’d never noticed before, framed in blackened wood, its surface dulled by age and dust. But as she wiped it clean with her sleeve, her breath caught in her throat.

It didn’t reflect her.

It showed the hallway behind her—but she wasn’t in it. No bookshelves. No dusty floor. No Diana.

And then, slowly, a figure appeared in the glass.

Not her.

It looked like her—same eyes, same hair—but the expression was wrong. Cold. Confident. She wore the same clothes, but they shimmered strangely, as though woven with threads of silver and ink.

The mirror-Diana reached forward and touched the inside of the glass.

The surface rippled like water.

Heart pounding, Diana stepped back. But the figure remained, watching. Then, in a voice that echoed inside her mind rather than her ears, it said:

“We need your help. Our world is breaking.”

“Why me?” Diana whispered aloud.

“Because you’re the last one who remembers the way back.”

And with that, the mirror dimmed. The image faded. She was staring once more at an empty, dusty reflection.

Except now… the book was in her hands again, though she didn’t remember picking it up.

Back in her dorm, Diana laid the book out on her desk. She could barely sleep anymore. Each night she dreamed of places she couldn’t name: vast cities made of glass and song, forests with trees that whispered secrets in languages she didn’t speak but somehow understood.

In her dream the night before, the mirror-Diana had returned. She gave her a name: "Veridra."

“You and I were once one,” Veridra had said. “Split when the breach began. Our worlds drifted apart, memories faded. But we are still echoes.”

Diana woke with tears in her eyes and ink-stained fingertips.

The next morning, the book had changed again. Now, dozens of pages were filled with diagrams and descriptions of a device—some kind of gate between worlds, hidden beneath the library in a forgotten chamber.

She knew what she had to do.

It took days of searching, following cryptic references in the book and maps drawn in shaky hand, but she finally found it—a hidden stairwell behind the archives, covered by a false bookshelf that opened with a gentle push. Cobwebs hung like curtains. Her phone’s flashlight barely cut through the darkness.

The stairwell descended deeper than the building should’ve allowed.

At the bottom, a stone room waited. In the center stood an archway—elegant and ancient, covered in carvings that pulsed faintly with light. Beside it was a pedestal, and on it, a keyhole… and an imprint the exact size and shape of the book.

The moment she placed the book into the cradle, the room vibrated.

A low hum filled the air. The runes along the arch lit up, one by one, and a thin film of shimmering light appeared within the arch.

A portal.

She should have hesitated.

She didn’t.

Diana stepped through.

She emerged into silence.

The world on the other side was both familiar and not. A city, perhaps, but quieter—glowing with gentle light from crystals embedded in the walls of towering buildings. The sky was twilight purple, and a thousand stars burned like candle flames above.

Veridra waited for her.

“I was afraid you wouldn’t come,” she said. She was taller here, older somehow, though her face was still Diana’s.

“What is this place?”

Veridra’s expression darkened. “A version of your world that branched off centuries ago. We preserved knowledge. Memory. Magic. But we lost something… the connection to the others. To your world.”

“Why me?”

“You were born near the breach. Some of the old memory seeped into you. That book found you because part of you never forgot.”

They walked together through silent streets. Statues lined the roads—people who had once traveled between worlds, now turned to stone.

“We’re fading,” Veridra said. “Our world feeds on memory. And yours… has forgotten us.”

Diana stopped. “What do I do?”

Veridra took her hand. “You write.”

“What?”

“You tell the story. You remember. And you help others remember too.”

Behind her, the mirror had followed—it stood at the edge of the city, floating, waiting.

“Once the story spreads, the bridge remains open,” Veridra said. “And we survive.”

Diana looked back at the mirror, then at Veridra. “Will I ever see you again?”

Veridra smiled. “You are me. We’ll always find each other.”

Back in her dorm room, Diana awoke with a soft inhale, like surfacing from deep water.

The book lay closed on her desk, its cover now smooth and warm beneath her fingers. When she opened it, the pages no longer shifted or erased themselves. They were full now—filled with stories. Some she remembered dreaming, others she didn’t recall writing, but they all felt… right.

Each tale was a fragment of something bigger.

A history recovered.

A bridge rebuilt.

Over the next weeks, Diana began transcribing the book into her journal. She added her own notes, her own thoughts, expanding on the lore that Veridra had shown her. Her creative writing professor, stunned by the originality of her submissions, encouraged her to publish.

So she did.

The book, The Ink Between Worlds, hit shelves quietly—just a small indie release from an unknown student. But readers started to find it. And something strange began to happen.

People wrote to her. Not just about how they loved the story—but how they remembered parts of it. Dreams they had as children. Feelings of déjà vu when walking past mirrors. Memories of places that never existed… until now.

The more people read, the more they remembered.

And the more they remembered, the more the boundary between worlds began to hum again with life.

One evening, while walking past the old library, Diana glanced down a hallway—and there it was. The mirror. Clean and gleaming, no longer dulled by dust or time. Her reflection smiled back at her, but something shimmered in her eyes—something brighter. Stronger.

Veridra stood behind the glass, her hand pressed gently against the surface. And this time, Diana knew what to do.

She pressed her hand to the glass too.

Not to cross over.

Just to say:

“I remember.”

And that was enough.