Ethan Brown didn't believe in destiny. Fate, in his opinion, was just another word for coincidence. But if he were to be honest, something about that afternoon felt... off.
The rain had started without warning, a heavy downpour that turned the city's sidewalks into shimmering mirrors. Ethan had been wandering aimlessly, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his faded denim jacket, earbuds blasting music loud enough to drown out his thoughts.
He wasn't supposed to be downtown. Not that he had anywhere specific to be, but his apartment across the river was where he spent most of his days, holed up with his art supplies and a laptop with an aging battery. Freelance graphic design didn't pay much, but it paid enough.
And then he saw it. Tucked between a boarded-up bookstore and a laundromat with flickering neon lights was a narrow shop he swore he'd never noticed before. The Curious Quill, read the sign painted in elegant gold lettering, chipped and weather-worn. The door was half-open, the scent of old paper and something herbal wafting from within.
Ethan's curiosity tugged at him. He didn't have anywhere else to be.
Inside, the shop was a labyrinth of dusty shelves and shadowed corners. Books stacked haphazardly on tables, old trinkets and peculiar artifacts displayed under smudged glass. The air felt thick, like the shop itself was breathing, whispering secrets to those who dared listen.
"Looking for something special, dear?"
The voice made Ethan flinch. He hadn't noticed her. The woman stood behind a counter cluttered with knickknacks and half-melted candles. Her eyes were sharp and grey, their intensity unsettling. She looked ancient and ageless at the same time, her thin frame wrapped in a dark shawl.
"I... was just browsing," Ethan replied, his voice sounding too loud in the silence.
"People don't just browse in The Curious Quill," the woman said, her lips curling into something that was neither a smile nor a frown. "They find what they're meant to find."
Ethan forced a chuckle, trying to shake off the weirdness. "Alright, sure. Let's go with that."
He wandered deeper into the shop, his fingers brushing against crumbling book spines and tarnished metal objects that looked like they belonged in a witch's attic. Despite himself, he found his interest growing.
Then he saw it.
The book was tucked between two hefty volumes that looked ready to disintegrate from age. Its cover was a deep, rich black, the leather smooth and cool to the touch. Intricate patterns were etched into the surface, curling like smoke around a symbol he couldn't quite place.
No title. No author. Just the symbol.
He pulled it free, surprised by how light it felt. The pages were crisp and pale, the ink a deep shade of midnight. Something about the book called to him, a whisper just at the edge of his mind.
"How much for this one?" he asked, holding the book up.
The woman's eyes narrowed. "That one, hmm?"
"Yeah. Doesn't have a title, but... it's kinda cool."
Her gaze lingered on the book, a hint of recognition passing through her expression before she shrugged. "Not many would be drawn to that one. Perhaps you are the right sort."
"The right sort for... what, exactly?"
"To listen," she said, her voice dropping to a murmur. "Twenty dollars, and it's yours."
Ethan hesitated, then dug his wallet from his pocket. Twenty dollars wasn't much. He'd spent more on coffee and pointless apps.
The woman accepted the cash with bony fingers, her nails painted a dark, glossy red. "Take care with that one, dear. It's been waiting a long time for someone like you."
He didn't bother replying. Her words were unsettling enough. Without another glance, Ethan shoved the book into his backpack and hurried out of the shop, the cold rain greeting him like a slap.
The city streets were still drenched when Ethan made it back to his apartment. His place was small—just a cramped studio with peeling wallpaper and a kitchen that looked like it belonged in a dollhouse. But it was his, and the familiarity of the clutter brought him comfort.
He tossed his jacket onto the single armchair in the corner and slumped down on his sagging couch. The book was still in his backpack, the weight of it a nagging presence. Why had he bought it, anyway? It was just some old journal or forgotten manuscript. Nothing special.
But it felt special.
Ethan pulled the book free and set it on the coffee table. The strange symbol on the cover seemed to shimmer in the dim light. His fingers traced the patterns, his skin tingling as if the book itself were alive.
He shook his head, laughing softly at his own paranoia. "Get a grip, Ethan. It's just a book."
He opened it.
The words stared back at him, written in a script that felt both familiar and foreign. His eyes moved over the text, the letters seeming to twist and dance under his gaze.
And then the pain hit.
A sharp, blinding ache shot through his temples, forcing him to drop the book as if it had burned him. His hands trembled, his breathing shallow. The headache faded as quickly as it had come, leaving behind a dull throbbing.
"What the hell was that?" he whispered, rubbing his forehead.
The book lay open on the table, the pages still whispering their secrets. Something deep within Ethan told him to close it, throw it away, forget he'd ever found it.
But another part of him—a darker, hungrier part—wanted to keep reading.