Mara had walked past the old library her entire childhood, always wondering why its doors stayed locked, its windows dark. One autumn evening, she found the heavy doors ajar. Dust swirled in the air as she stepped inside.

But the shelves were bare—thousands of them, stretching endlessly, each empty. At the center stood a single desk with a book lying open. Its pages were blank until her shadow fell upon them. Then, words appeared: her own name, followed by events she hadn’t yet lived.

The air grew colder. A whisper echoed through the hollow hall:

“Every story that isn’t remembered must be lived again.”