You were a simple person living a quiet life. Your days were an endless cycle of routines: wake up, work, eat, sleep, repeat. Nothing particularly remarkable ever seemed to happen. It wasn’t that you disliked your life; it was just… predictable. You had a small apartment, a few acquaintances but not many close friends, and a family you didn’t see often. The reasons for that distance? Well, that was something you preferred not to dwell on.

 Your world was modern, bustling, and loud, but somehow, it always felt disconnected. Like you were standing on the edge of something, watching life go by but never truly stepping into it. What made it bearable was your imagination.
You loved art, especially writing and reading stories. The escape that books offered was priceless. In their pages, you could lose yourself in adventures, romances, and worlds far more vibrant than your own. You often wondered if you’d been born into the wrong life.

Today was no different. The sun hung low in the sky as you walked home from another monotonous day. Your shoes scraped the pavement of a street you’d walked hundreds of times before. Yet, something was different this evening. Maybe it was the way the light angled down the alley, casting long shadows, or the faint smell of old paper that drifted through the air. Whatever it was, it drew your attention to a narrow, darkened path you’d never noticed before.

At the end of the alley, nestled between two weathered buildings, was an ancient-looking library. Its sign was barely legible, the paint chipped and faded, but the sight of it tugged at your curiosity. You hesitated for only a moment before stepping inside.

The air within was cool and smelled of aged parchment. Rows upon rows of books lined every wall, their spines worn but sturdy. The place was larger than it looked from the outside, its shelves towering almost impossibly high. Behind a wooden counter sat an old man with twinkling eyes and a warm smile. His presence felt inviting, yet mysterious, like he was expecting you.
“Welcome,” he said, his voice deep and soothing. “Feel free to look around. Every book here is one of a kind.”
You nodded, your eyes already scanning the shelves. Each book seemed to whisper a story, their covers embossed with intricate designs or faded titles. There was a pull to this place, an energy that made your heart beat just a little faster. As your fingers traced the spines, one book in particular caught your eye. It was larger and heavier than the others, its leather cover cracked with age. The title, "Legends of the Written Realms" was almost entirely erased, its letters faint and golden.

You pulled the book from the shelf with some effort and opened it. The pages were blank at first, but as you turned them, faint words began to appear, like ink being drawn from the ether. Suddenly, the dim light of the library flickers violently, plunging the room into strange, shifting shadows. The letters on the page seem to writhe, twisting into shapes that make no sense. Suddenly, an intense light bursts forth, blinding you.
The voices come next. A cacophony of whispers and shouts, dozens, no, hundreds of them, all speaking at once. “Your turn,” one says. “Finally here,” another adds, though the rest blend into an overwhelming hum that makes your head throb.

And then you feel it. Hands, dozens of them, grasping at your arms, your shoulders, your back. The sensation isn’t painful, but it’s overwhelming, as though unseen figures are pulling you forward. You let go of the book instinctively, but it doesn’t matter. The hands drag you toward it, and no matter how much you try to resist, their grip is unrelenting.
Your vision blurs, your surroundings dissolving into streaks of light and darkness. Your pulse quickens as panic sets in, but there’s no escaping the pull. The voices grow louder, more insistent, until they drown out every thought.
You shut your eyes tightly, hoping this is a nightmare you can wake from.

You keep your eyes closed for a long time. You don’t hear anything anymore, you don’t feels the hands. When you open them again, everything is different. The air is cool and heavy, filled with a strange, oppressive stillness. Darkness surrounds you, vast and impenetrable, save for faint glimmers far above that look like distant stars.
You’re standing on solid ground, smooth and cold, with a texture like polished stone, but you can’t see where it begins or ends. The space feels immense, like a hall that stretches endlessly in every direction, though no walls or ceilings are visible in the dark.
The voices are gone, and the silence is deafening. You’re left with a single question echoing in your mind, sending a shiver down your spine:
What just happened?