The attic smelled of dust and forgotten memories. Ethan Wells had never paid much attention to it—until today. His grandfather’s old house was full of creaky doors and hidden corners, but something about the attic had always unsettled him. Maybe it was the way the wooden beams groaned in protest when the wind howled outside, or the eerie silence that hung in the air, thick and expectant. But now, curiosity had won.

  With a deep breath, Ethan climbed the creaky stairs, his flashlight cutting through the darkness. The air was thick with the scent of aged paper and mothballs. He coughed, waving a hand in front of his face, then shined the light across the room. Stacks of old books and trunks lined the walls, each coated in a fine layer of dust.

  One trunk, in particular, caught his eye. It sat in the farthest corner, nearly swallowed by shadows. Unlike the others, which were scuffed and broken, this one looked oddly preserved. Its leather was worn but uncracked, the brass hinges untarnished. The most peculiar thing was the symbol carved into the lid—a swirling pattern that seemed to shift in the dim light.

  Something about it made Ethan’s stomach flip. He hesitated only a moment before kneeling beside it and running his fingers over the latch. It was locked. Of course. But as soon as his fingers brushed against the metal, there was a soft click—the lock released on its own.

  A chill ran down his spine. That’s not normal.

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  Swallowing hard, Ethan lifted the lid.

  Inside, buried beneath yellowed newspapers and an old compass, was a book.

  Not just any book. The book.

  It was heavier than he expected, the leather cover warm to the touch. The swirling golden patterns on its surface shimmered faintly, like molten light trapped beneath the surface. Ethan turned it over in his hands, feeling a strange hum beneath his fingertips, like the faint vibration of a heartbeat.

  He flipped it open.

  Blank.

  Every single page was empty.

  Frowning, Ethan ran a hand over the parchment. It felt… alive. The way the pages didn’t quite sit still, the way the air around them seemed to hum. He grabbed a pencil from his pocket and hesitated only a moment before sketching a small tree in the top corner of the first page.

  The air shifted.

  A gust of wind, impossibly strong for an attic, whirled around him. Ethan barely had time to shut his eyes before a low, resonant hum filled the room. When he opened them, his breath caught in his throat.

  A tiny sapling, exactly like the one he had drawn, now stood beside the trunk.

  Ethan stumbled backward, heart hammering against his ribs.

  No way.

  He turned back to the book, fingers shaking, and flipped another page. This time, he drew a small wooden bridge. The moment his pencil left the page, the floor trembled, and with a deep groan, something new appeared in the attic—a miniature bridge, spanning the gap between two old trunks.

  Ethan’s mind raced. This wasn’t just an old book. This was something else. Something impossible.

  He barely had time to process what he had discovered when the attic lights flickered. A distant creak echoed through the house, as though someone—or something—had sensed the book’s awakening.

  Ethan slammed it shut.

  For a long moment, he just sat there, gripping the book like a lifeline. His heartbeat thudded in his ears. What have I just found?

  Then, from somewhere deep within the house, a soft whisper curled through the air.

  A whisper that was not his own.