The Librarian’s Debt
He took a forbidden book from a quiet library. Now, something follows—rewriting his reflection, waiting for him to finish the last page.
She said the book couldn’t be borrowed. Bound in crimson leather, no title, no catalog entry—just a single word etched into the spine: "OATH."
I asked how much to copy a few pages. She didn’t answer. Just stared and whispered, “You can take it, but something comes back with it.”
Of course, I took it anyway.
The pages were blank until midnight. Then, words bled through in black-red script, changing each time I blinked. I tried filming it, scanning it—every attempt failed. The book refused to be captured.
On the third night, my reflection started lagging behind. Mimicking different movements. Smiling when I didn’t.
I returned the book at dawn. The librarian was gone. A younger man sat behind the desk and asked if I was ready to register.
He pushed a new book toward me—its spine already marked with my name.
I asked how much to copy a few pages. She didn’t answer. Just stared and whispered, “You can take it, but something comes back with it.”
Of course, I took it anyway.
The pages were blank until midnight. Then, words bled through in black-red script, changing each time I blinked. I tried filming it, scanning it—every attempt failed. The book refused to be captured.
On the third night, my reflection started lagging behind. Mimicking different movements. Smiling when I didn’t.
I returned the book at dawn. The librarian was gone. A younger man sat behind the desk and asked if I was ready to register.
He pushed a new book toward me—its spine already marked with my name.
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