The rest of the evening passed in a haze. Dinner with her family was lively and full of laughter, the kind of warmth only a holiday could bring. Her father was recounting his latest business venture, her mother reminding everyone of the charity gala they would attend next week, and her younger brother was glued to his phone, tapping furiously at a game. The clinking of crystal glasses, the chandelier lights, the polished marble table—everything exuded wealth and comfort. To anyone watching, it was the picture of perfection.
And yet, for her, the entire evening felt muffled, distant, as if she were moving through a dream. Every bite of food turned to ash on her tongue, every laugh sounded faint, hollow. Her mind could not leave the image of that book resting upstairs in her room—heavy, ancient, its leather cracked, its pages yellowed with time.
When the meal ended and the family dispersed, she excused herself earlier than usual, claiming fatigue. She could feel her mother's concerned gaze but dismissed it with a reassuring smile. Her heart was already racing at the thought of returning to her room.
---
The hallway to her bedroom stretched long and silent. The mansion, though modern and refurbished, still carried the bones of its past. The tall windows revealed the night outside—October air crisp, with the faint glow of the city lights flickering in the distance. The corridors were decorated with portraits of long-dead ancestors, each pair of painted eyes seeming to follow her as she walked. She tightened her grip on the railing, shivering despite the central heating.
Her room greeted her with warmth: soft velvet curtains, a plush bed, and the faint scent of lavender from a diffuser her mother had placed earlier. Yet her attention went immediately to the desk by the window. The book was there, exactly where she had left it. The lamplight seemed to fall on it unnaturally, as though the leather absorbed the glow instead of reflecting it.
She sat down slowly, hands trembling as she reached for the cover. A strange reverence gripped her, as if she were holding not an object but a living presence. Her mind kept circling back to the line she had read earlier, the line that had shaken her to her core: October 9th, 2025. The first bell tolls.
It was the exact date of today.
---
Her fingers traced the embossed symbols on the cover. They weren't letters she recognized—neither Latin nor any other alphabet she had studied. Yet there was a strange familiarity to them, as if her mind wanted to connect them with something just beyond her memory. She opened the book again.
The pages smelled faintly of smoke and earth. The ink was dark, some letters blurred, some perfectly crisp. She turned past the first page, her eyes scanning lines of script that twisted and curved in ways that made her dizzy. A few fragments had translations written below in faint handwriting, as though by a previous reader:
"The one who holds this will become the Witness."
"The bells mark the passage of endings."
"When shadows stretch across the thirteenth night, the world shall tremble."
Her skin prickled. She flipped further. The script grew more chaotic, symbols layered over symbols. She paused on a page filled entirely with a circular diagram. Lines intersected like constellations, at the center a symbol resembling an eye. Beneath it, faintly scrawled in a hurried hand, were words in English: "All prophecies converge."
She didn't know why, but her pulse hammered at those words.
---
Midnight crept upon her before she realized. The house had grown utterly silent, save for the occasional creak of old wood. She glanced at her phone: 12:01 a.m. The battery was nearly full, yet for a moment, the screen flickered strangely before stabilizing.
She froze.
The book lay open in front of her, and on the page she hadn't yet turned, words began to darken as though fresh ink were seeping from the paper. Slowly, painfully slowly, new letters formed. Her breath caught in her throat.
October 10th, 2025. Rain shall fall where none was foretold.
Her heart slammed against her ribs. She blinked, rubbed her eyes, but the words remained, black and sharp against the yellowed page. She checked her phone again. Yes, the date had just shifted—it was now October 10th.
A chill swept through her.
---
For a moment she sat utterly still, unable to move, hardly able to breathe. The logical part of her mind screamed at her: books don't write themselves, this isn't real, it's some trick of light, some hallucination. And yet… her trembling hand reached out and touched the words. The ink smudged faintly at her fingertip.
She snapped the book shut with a gasp, stumbling backward. Her chair scraped loudly against the floor. She clutched her chest, breathing fast, as though the act of closing the cover would shut away whatever force had manifested. But the silence of the room felt heavier now, pressing against her ears.
Then she heard it.
A sound, distant yet distinct—the faint toll of a bell. Once. Twice. Three times. It wasn't the chime of her phone or the grandfather clock downstairs. It was something deeper, resonant, vibrating through the very air.
Her knees nearly buckled.
---
She stumbled to the window and pulled the curtains aside. The night outside was dark, the city lights faint in the horizon, but above—clouds had gathered. She remembered the forecast clearly: the weather app had predicted clear skies all week. Yet now, heavy clouds churned above the mansion, and a distant flash of lightning split the sky.
"No," she whispered, her voice breaking. "This can't be real."
A spatter of rain struck the glass. Then another. Within moments, sheets of water poured down, drumming against the windows, soaking the garden below. She pressed her forehead to the cold glass, watching in disbelief as puddles formed on the driveway, as the old oak trees swayed in the sudden storm.
The prophecy had come true.
---
She stumbled back from the window, her mind spinning. Every instinct screamed at her to run downstairs, to tell her family, to prove she wasn't insane. But something inside her—an instinct deeper than fear—warned her to stay silent. The book was not meant for everyone. It had chosen her.
She glanced at the desk again. The book sat there innocently, closed, silent. Yet she could still feel its presence, heavy, magnetic, as though it pulsed faintly with her heartbeat.
Her phone buzzed suddenly, startling her. A message popped up on the screen: a weather alert. "Unexpected storm activity reported across the northern region. Residents advised to stay indoors."
Her blood turned to ice.
---
She sank onto her bed, hugging her knees. The storm raged outside, thunder rolling, rain lashing. Her mind replayed the words over and over: October 10th, 2025. Rain shall fall where none was foretold.
This was no coincidence.
Her eyes drifted back to the book. For the first time, she truly believed what it was—a record of prophecies. Maybe even a guide to the end of the world. And she, by chance or by fate, had become its keeper.
Sleep would not come easily that night. Every shadow seemed to move, every creak of the old mansion sounded like a warning. Yet one thought consumed her as the storm howled:
If this prophecy had come true… what about the next?
---
End of Chapter 2