Kate didn’t mean to stay past midnight. The library was nearly empty, lights dimmed to a soft amber, the kind of quiet that made every footstep feel like an interruption. She liked it that way—controlled, orderly, predictable.

Until she found the book. It wasn’t on the catalogue terminal. No barcode. No author name.

Just a black spine tucked between two volumes that didn’t belong together.

KATE LOCKWOOD embossed in silver. Her pulse spiked. She checked the shelf again. Philosophy. Economics. Then this.

Carefully, she pulled it free.

The first pages were blank.

She laughed under her breath, relief trying to settle in. “Very funny,” she murmured to no one.

Then she turned the page. "You don’t notice the man watching you until it’s already too late. Not because he’s careless—but because he’s patient" Kate snapped the book shut.

Her phone buzzed.

A text from you.

You: Still at the library?

Her fingers hovered over the screen.

Kate: Yes. Why?

The typing bubble appeared. Disappeared.

You: Just a feeling.

Her throat went dry.

Kate opened the book again.

At 12:17 a.m., Kate checks her phone and feels a sense of unease she can’t name. She checked the time.

12:16.

Her breath came shallow. She flipped forward—pages no longer blank, but filled with moments she recognized.

Conversations she’d had. Thoughts she’d never shared.

And then— She considers calling you. She doesn’t know yet whether that’s a mistake.

The library felt suddenly too large. Too empty.

She didn’t text.

She called. You answered immediately. “Kate.”

“How did you—” Her voice shook despite herself. “Where are you?”