The letter was not addressed to her.

It was folded so precisely, tucked between pages brittle with time, that Hadley almost missed it. She had only come into the bookstore to avoid the rain. That kind of slow, freezing drizzle that soaked into bones and stained the sky gray. The bell above the door barely made a sound when she stepped inside Bellamy & Daughters — Antiquarian Books & Curiosities.

No daughters in sight. Just a tiny woman behind the counter, older than the walls, flipping through a crossword puzzle with a look of divine focus. She didn’t even look up when Hadley passed.

The store was a labyrinth of narrow shelves and faded rugs. Dust motes danced in the light from a stained-glass lamp. It smelled like forgotten stories and cracked leather, and Hadley found herself drifting through the aisles like someone under a spell.

She wasn’t looking for anything.

But something was looking for her.

It was a thin green book with no title on the spine. Just a gilded design—a single eye, open and staring. The cover was embossed, almost pulsating under her fingertips. It was shelved upside down, backwards, and when she pulled it out, it came willingly. As if relieved.

She opened it to a random page. Page ninety-three.

A letter slid out and landed at her feet.

Hadley knelt to pick it up. The envelope was sealed with wax, pale blue, stamped with the same eye as the cover of the book. She turned it over. No name. No date. But her fingers trembled like it belonged to her anyway.

She glanced toward the front desk. The old woman was gone.

The rain pressed harder against the windows.

So she opened it.

My dearest M.,
If you’re reading this, the memory has started to return. You don’t have long. The ink beneath will show you what they made you forget. Don’t trust the margins. Don’t read aloud. And above all—don’t stop once you’ve begun.

Turn to page ninety-four. Burn this letter.

—E.

Hadley read it again. And again. There was something dizzying about the way the words tilted. Like they were layered over something else—some deeper truth buried beneath the ink. “The ink beneath,” she murmured.

The book was still open in her hands. Page ninety-four was blank.

She blinked. No—it was filled with words, but the letters swam, fading and reappearing like static. One sentence stood out:

You were never meant to forget.

That’s when the lights flickered.

The air changed. The rain outside silenced.

She should have left.

She didn’t.

She flipped through more pages. Marginalia crawled along the sides in handwriting not quite her own:

“Look closer.”

“This was never fiction.”

“You left breadcrumbs.”

There were pressed flowers between pages. Strange symbols. A smear of something that looked like dried ink—but smelled faintly like blood. Hadley’s hands were shaking.

She closed the book and tucked the letter into her coat.

When she turned back toward the front counter, the old woman was there again, watching her.

“You found it,” the woman said.

Hadley froze. “What?”

“The book. It always chooses.”

Hadley licked her lips. “It had a letter inside.”

The woman’s eyes flickered. “Did you open it?”

Hadley hesitated too long.

The woman sighed and turned the sign on the door from OPEN to CLOSED.

Two Days Earlier

The dreams had started again.

Always the same: a hallway without doors, lined with bookshelves. A humming noise. Something just around the corner—but she never turned it.

And always the girl in the mirror, watching her with a stare far too old to be hers.

Hadley had dismissed it. Just anxiety. Moving to a new city. Starting fresh. But deep down, something else itched—something that whispered maybe she hadn’t started fresh at all.

Maybe she’d started over.

Back in the Bookstore

“You’ve seen her, haven’t you?” the woman said softly, placing the green book on the counter between them. “The girl in the mirror.”

Hadley didn’t answer.

The woman nodded as though she had.

“Her name was Margot. Before they erased it.”

Hadley felt her breath catch. “What is this? Some kind of... game?”

The woman didn’t smile. “Do you remember what you gave up?”

Hadley stepped back. “I should go.”

“You already began.” The woman’s voice was sad. “You can’t go until the book is finished. Or it will finish you.”

Hadley left without the book. Or so she thought.

It was in her apartment when she returned. Sitting on her kitchen table. A faint trail of damp footprints led from the door to the chair.

The letter was back inside. The wax unbroken.

She didn’t sleep that night. She tried to burn the letter. It wouldn’t catch fire.

Tried to throw the book out the window. It was on her pillow when she turned around.

She read it again.

This time, the story began to change.

There were entries dated in her own handwriting. Stories she didn’t remember writing. About a girl who could remember other lives. Who kept them buried in books. Who sealed away parts of herself to survive something terrible.

Something called “The Erasure.”

By page two hundred, Hadley wasn’t sure what was real anymore.

By page three hundred, she stopped trying to resist it.

The mirror in her hallway began to show other versions of herself—Margot with white hair. Margot with ink-stained hands. Margot hiding a book in the roots of a tree while the sky bled red behind her.

Each reflection held the book.

Each one whispered the same thing:

“Finish it, or be forgotten again.”

The Final Chapter

Hadley returned to the bookstore.

It was gone.

Not closed. Not boarded up.

Just... vanished. An empty lot between a hardware store and a florist. No dust. No rubble. No record it had ever been there.

She stood in the rain for a long time, holding the book.

Then she opened to the last page.

It read:

To remember is to break the cycle.To forget is to survive.Choose.

There was space for one more entry.

Her hand moved on its own. She wrote:

I remember everything.

And then the book sighed.

A real sound. Like something being unchained.

The rain stopped.

The world shimmered.

One Year Later

Hadley—or maybe Margot—runs a bookstore now.

It’s not on any map. You won’t find it unless it’s time.

It has no name. Just a green door and a bell that hums like static.

People come in, looking for something they’ve forgotten.

And sometimes, if the book chooses them, they find it.

And if you’re reading this…

The ink beneath has already begun to surface.