The Book With No Words
355 Words
The bell above the door jingled—a soft, silvery chime that seemed to shimmer in the air longer than it should have.
Mira stepped into the old shop, pulling her coat tighter around her. The place smelled of aged paper, sandalwood, and something else—something ancient and electric. The kind of scent that made your soul remember things your mind had long forgotten.
She had never noticed this shop before, though she walked this street almost every day. It stood squeezed between a florist and a shuttered café, its windows dusted and dim, its sign faded: The Timekeeper’s Curio.
A strange pull had led her here, not unlike the sensation she’d had as a child when she'd find herself walking toward forgotten places without knowing why. She had learned not to question it.
“Hello?” she called, her voice barely above a whisper.
No answer.
Rows of cluttered shelves stretched toward the back, filled with peculiar trinkets—timeworn clocks, globes with shifting continents, crystal pendulums, and carved figurines with eyes that seemed to follow her. Mira’s fingers trailed along the edge of a glass display until they paused, frozen by a sudden tingle in her palm.
A book. Thick and bound in deep indigo leather, its spine etched with gold sigils that pulsed faintly in the dim light.
She reached out. The moment her fingertips touched it, warmth spread through her hand and up her arm. The air shifted.
The book opened itself.
Blank.
Every page.
And yet—she heard something. A whisper? A hum? No... a memory.
She knew this book.
Not from this life.
Before she could turn the next page, a voice startled her.
“That one doesn’t belong here,” an old man said, appearing beside her without a sound. His eyes, clouded yet piercing, studied her carefully. “But it came anyway. For you.”
Mira swallowed. “Why is it empty?”
He tilted his head. “Because you haven’t remembered yet.”
“Remembered what?”
He smiled, slow and knowing. “Your part in the weaving. It always begins with forgetting.”
- Writer
