I never believed that a message could change someone’s life until it happened to me.
That evening was just like any other. I had just returned from my usual walk, drenched in thoughts about my slow-moving life. Work was boring, social life was dead, and dreams were buried beneath responsibilities. I tossed my phone on the bed like always and went to the kitchen to make chai. It was then, in the middle of stirring sugar, that I heard my phone ping. Nothing unusual, it was probably a notification from some useless app I never cared about. But still, I picked it up.
One message.
No sender name.
Just a number I didn’t recognize.
“Go to the old library. Ask for the red journal. Your truth waits.”
I almost laughed. It looked like one of those spam messages or some prank. But something in me—call it intuition or just plain boredom—wouldn’t let it go. My heart, for no reason at all, started racing. Why was it addressed so personally? "Your truth waits." What truth?
I stared at that message for over ten minutes. Then I took a decision I never thought I’d take—I followed it.
The old library was just two kilometers from my apartment, an ancient structure nobody really visited anymore. People around here were all into modern cafés and e-books. This library was almost forgotten. When I reached, it looked closed. But the door creaked open when I pushed gently.
The smell inside was old and dusty, like memories locked in time. There was no one at the front desk. I walked in, unsure of what I was even looking for. Then, behind the last row of shelves, an old man with glasses sat silently, reading something handwritten.
He looked up and said before I even opened my mouth, “You’re here for the red journal, right?”
I froze.
“How do you—?”
He didn’t answer. He simply got up, went to the shelf behind him, and pulled out a thick red-colored book. No title. Just a symbol carved on the front—an eye.
He handed it to me and whispered, “Read only when you’re alone. And once you begin, you must finish it in one sitting.”
That should’ve been my cue to run away. But I didn’t. I took the journal, walked straight home, shut my door, and opened the first page.
It was empty.
So was the second.
But the third—my god, the third page had my name on it.
“Hatim Khokhi: Your story begins now.”
I can’t explain what I felt. My hands were shaking. Every page that followed told things about me that no one else could possibly know. My childhood fears. My first heartbreak. My deepest regrets. And then it began writing things I hadn’t even experienced yet.
A decision I’d take. A betrayal that would break me. A success that would shake the world.
It felt like someone had seen my entire life—past, present, and future—and inked it on those pages.
I read for hours. Crying. Smiling. Feeling numb. It was like being told your entire destiny, chapter by chapter. But there was one part that shattered me.
It said:
“On the 17th of June, at 9:45 PM, your life will reach its sharpest turning point. You will receive a call that will demand everything from you. What you choose will not just define you, but the people you love.”
I looked at the date. That was tomorrow.
I didn’t sleep that night. I kept wondering who would call, and what would I be asked to decide. I tried to forget, to distract myself. But the clock kept ticking.
When the 17th arrived, my phone felt heavier in my pocket. I checked it every ten minutes like a paranoid idiot. Every message made me jump. Every unknown number made my heart drop. But nothing came all day.
Then, at 9:44 PM, the phone buzzed.
Unknown caller.
My breath stopped. I picked it up with a trembling thumb.
“Hatim?” A voice I hadn’t heard in years.
It was Raza, my best friend from college. We had lost touch after a bad fallout—he’d moved away, and I never forgave him. But now, here he was, his voice broken.
“I’m in trouble, bhai. I didn’t know who else to call. I’m in Delhi. They’re after me. I made a mistake. A big one. Please help me. Just this one time.”
I didn’t know what to say. Part of me wanted to scream at him for the pain he’d caused me. Another part—the part that remembered our brotherhood—was already reaching for my keys.
But I remembered the journal’s words.
“This will demand everything from you.”
And I understood. Helping him meant risking my safety. Risking my job. Maybe even my future. But saying no? That would mean living with the weight of betrayal—just like the one he did to me.
I said nothing for a moment.
Then I asked, “Where are you?”
That one choice changed everything.
I picked him up from a shady building on the edge of the city. He looked nothing like the Raza I knew. Skinny, scared, and full of regret. He’d gotten involved in something illegal. Drugs. Debts. Bad people.
He begged me to let him stay for a night. I gave him a week. I called a lawyer I knew. Arranged help. We didn’t speak much, but in those silences, we remembered who we were.
Weeks passed. He got cleaned up. Got a second chance. And in giving him that, I found a piece of myself I’d lost.
I never got another message from that number. The journal vanished from my shelf one morning like it was never there. But its last page stayed with me:
“Sometimes, your truth is not about you. It’s about who you choose to be when someone else needs you most.”
I never told anyone this story. People wouldn’t believe it. But I know what happened. I lived it.
And that message?
It didn’t just change my night.
It changed everything.
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