The Necronomicon of Folded Time

More about The Necronomicon of Folded Time

The hall lay beneath the old academy, hidden between two corridors that, according to the plans, had never existed. Maris hadn't sought the hidden door—she had stumbled, as if the floor had purposefully guided her. The stone was cold, the light dim. Her lantern cast dancing shadows, and each footstep sounded as if echoing from another time. The air smelled of dust and old metal, of ink that had never dried. At the end of the narrow corridor, a space opened that felt like an eye—not observed, but observing. In the center: a stone table, from which the light receded. And upon it: a book. Not a great work, not a monstrosity with golden tendrils, but an inconspicuous volume bound in gray leather. The lantern's light denied it shadow. It lay there, like a dreaming sleep. Maris approached. Her footsteps seemed to vanish before they touched the ground. She reached out her hand – the book breathed. Not audibly, but palpably. It was warm. Not the warmth of fire, but the warmth that arises when memory stirs. The title didn't catch her eye, but rather entered her mind: Necronomicon of Folded Time. As she placed her fingertips on the leather, a breath flickered through the air – like a gust of wind that couldn't make up its mind. The book opened of its own accord, slowly, soundlessly. No page numbers. No chapters. Only sentences that weren't written, but appeared – line by line, in ink that seemed to breathe. Maris wasn't reading – she was being read. The words formed memories that seemed familiar to her, though they weren't her own. A child in a snow globe, never born. A tower never built, yet abandoned. A question never asked, yet already answered. The hall changed. Lines on the walls shifted, as if the stones were retreating back into a shape they once held. A mirror appeared out of light, next to the table. In it, Maris saw herself—older, more tired, with eyes that had seen things her current self still considered impossible. Then the whispering began. Not loud, but clear. Not a voice, but a thought forming from within: "You are not the first to read. But you are the first to understand." Maris couldn't break away. The page before her was blank, but she knew something was written there. Her name. Her goal. Or what came after. When she blinked, a line appeared—written in fleeting light: "The page chooses you." She flipped over. The hall twitched. Time leaped like a broken mirror, each fragment vibrating in a different moment. She saw herself, multiple times—reading, not reading, gone, staying. And in the midst of these variations: the book, always the same, always waiting. Then it closed. Not by her hand. As if it had seen enough. The hall fell silent. No more mirrors. No more wandering lines. Only the table, empty. And the feeling that somewhere inside her a new chapter had begun—still unwritten, but already true. Maris left the room without turning around.