It wasn’t supposed to be there.

The diary was tucked in a dusty corner of the library, bound in dark leather that smelled faintly of old parchment and something… else. You had been looking for a book on magical creatures, but curiosity drew you closer.

As soon as you opened it, the first words appeared on the page, neat and precise:

“Hello. I’ve been waiting for someone like you.”

You jumped, nearly dropping the book. “What… who are you?”

“I am Tom Riddle,” the handwriting appeared, moving as if alive. “And you… you’ve found me.”

You blinked. “You… you can talk through a book?”

“Of course. Only certain people can hear me. People who… are special.”

Something about the way he wrote made your stomach twist. There was a confidence in the letters, an intelligence that was both captivating and unsettling.

Over the next few days, you found yourself returning to the diary again and again. Tom was polite, articulate, and unnervingly curious about you. He asked questions about your classes, your friends, your thoughts on magic. And slowly, he began to guide you, subtly suggesting ideas, showing knowledge you didn’t think a student could have.

One evening, alone in the library, you whispered, “Why are you talking to me?”

The diary’s pages fluttered on their own, words appearing almost instantly: “Because you listen. Because you’re not like the others. You see… I can show you things. Secrets no one else will.”