I've been thinking about a question lately: if I hadn't been so damn nosy that day, would I still have to sleep with all the lights on every single night?
I've been thinking about this for three months. No answer.
Because the book was opened. The date was written. Like water spilled on the floor—you can't take it back.
My name is Lin Shu. Twenty-six years old. I work as an editor at a new media company. My job is basically finding stuff online, tweaking it into articles, and posting them on the company's WeChat account.
The pay is neither high nor low. Just enough to split a partitioned apartment in Beijing, endure an hour-long subway commute, and occasionally grab a decent meal with friends on weekends.
My life was ordinary. So ordinary that looking back now, it feels unreal.
It all started last November.
During that period, there wasn't much work at the office. I was slacking off so much I felt guilty about it. So I decided to go out and walk around on a Saturday. I live not far from Panjiayuan, so on a Saturday morning with nothing to do, I wandered over to the flea market.
November in Beijing was already quite cold. The wind felt like small knives against my face. The weekend market was crowded—selling everything: old books, old porcelain, old furniture, old clothes. They filled the entire plaza.
I don't know anything about antiques. I just like browsing old books. The yellowed ones, the musty-smelling ones, ones that had passed through countless hands. There's something about flipping through them. They smell like time.
After browsing two or three stalls without any luck, I wasn't surprised. The old book vendors have gotten shrewd these days. Anything with some age is priced high—always claiming "Republic of China collector's item" or "famous author's annotated copy." I can't afford any of that.
Just as I was about to leave the market, I noticed a tiny, insignificant little shop.
No sign. No name. Just two old wooden doors, one open, the interior dark. A few cardboard boxes were piled by the door, also stuffed with books.
An old man in his sixties sat at the entrance on a small stool, wearing reading glasses, flipping slowly through a thick dictionary. The kind of slow that suggests he wasn't in any hurry at all.
I hadn't planned on going in. The shop looked too decrepit. But my peripheral vision caught a yellowed piece of paper taped to the doorframe, with four characters written in brush: "BEN DIAN BU MAI"—"This Shop Does Not Sell."
I laughed.
If you don't sell, then why open a shop?
What's the difference between that and "Customers Not Welcome"?
I don't know what possessed me. It's like when your parents said "don't touch that" when you were a kid, and of course you had to touch it anyway.
I stepped over the threshold and walked in.
The inside was even messier than it looked from outside. The bookshelves were old wooden frames, leaning crookedly against the walls, packed with books. Some shelves had so many they were stacked horizontally on top.
The air smelled of mold and dust mixed together. Not pleasant, but not entirely unpleasant either. Like the smell in my grandfather's study when I was a kid.
The lighting was dim. Just one fluorescent tube overhead, one end burnt out, the other end flickering intermitently. Like the opening scene of a horror movie.
The old man didn't look up. Didn't say a word. Just kept flipping through his dictionary.
I wandered slowly between the bookshelves. The books here were truly miscellaneous—comic books from the seventies and eighties, various editions of literary classics, yellowed medical textbooks, and a few nameless books with no covers, impossible to date.
I pulled out a few at random and flipped through them. The condition wasn't great. Some pages were so brittle they crumbled at a touch.
After about five minutes, I stopped in front of the deepest bookshelf.
Its location was strange. Tucked away at the very back of the shop, blocked by two other bookshelves. I wouldn't have found it at all if I hadn't squeezed through sideways. The shelf wasn't big—only four layers, holding maybe twenty or thirty books, all covered in dust. Like no one had touched them in ages.
My gaze swept across it, then stopped.
Third layer. Far right. A book.
The book wasn't large—about the width of an adult's palm. Blue-gray cover, no title, no author, no text whatsoever. The cover was bound with old rough canvas, rough and scratchy to the touch.
The pages were yellowed badly. But not evenly yellow—like they'd been soaked in water then dried in the sun, leaving patches of dark and light.
When I pulled it from the shelf, it was heavier than it looked.
Holding it, there was an indescribable weight to it.
Just as I was about to open it, a voice came from behind me.
"That one isn't for sale."
I got spooked and turned around. The old man had somehow appeared behind me, still holding his dictionary, but his eyes looked at me over his glasses. That gaze wasn't right.
Not the kind of tension that says "this is expensive, don't touch it." Something deeper than that.
I couldn't quite describe it.
It was as if I wasn't holding a book at all, but a living creature.
"Oh," I pushed the book back slightly. "I was just browsing."
The old man didn't speak, but he didn't walk away either. Just stood there watching me.
The atmosphere grew awkward. I slid the book back onto the shelf and turned toward the exit. Halfway to the door, that feeling rose up in me again. Just "not for sale"? Why? Just because it's old?
I turned back.
The old man had already sat back down at the door on his little stool. He glanced at me as I passed but said nothing.
I returned to that bookshelf and picked up the book again.
This time I didn't hesitate. I directly opened to the first page.
Blank.
I thought I was seeing wrong. Turned another page. Still blank. Another flip, blank. I flipped through a dozen pages—no text at all. Completely blank. Like untouched paper. But the pages were clearly aged, yellowed and curled at the edges, looking old.
I flipped through dozens more pages. All blank.
I didn't see anything until I reached about two-thirds through. Just some ink strokes, like someone had casually brushed very diluted ink. Couldn't tell what they were drawing. More like accidental smears.
Then came what truly stopped me cold. The last page.
When I flipped there, I first saw a blank area. I thought the whole book was blank and was about to close it, when I noticed very tiny text in the lower right corner.
Handwritten.
Fountain pen. Blue-black ink. The handwriting was neat, but some places were blurred, like the writer's hand had trembled, the pen tip pausing on the paper.
It was a date.
November seventeenth.
I pulled out my phone and checked. November sixteenth. Saturday.
Tomorrow.
My first reaction: what kind of lame prank was this?
Writing tomorrow's date on the last page. Playing spooky games to scare people. Probably some kind of performance art deliberately placed in an old bookshop for someone to find. Creative, I had to admit. But the date was too close. If they'd written a few months out, maybe I'd have spent more time pondering it.
I laughed twice, closed the book, and slid it back onto the shelf.
The old man was still sitting at the entrance. This time he looked up.
"Did you read it?"
He asked. His tone was very flat, like he was commenting on something inconsequential.
"Flipped through it," I said. "All blank pages."
The old man was silent for a few seconds.
"Did you read the last page?"
As he said this, his eyes fixed on me. Those eyeballs weren't quite right. Like his pupils were larger than normal. The fluorescent light flickered again, his face shifting between light and dark. For an instant, I even thought there was a strange expression on his face.
Not anger. Not worry.
More like that expression people have when they say "as expected." Like a doctor receiving a patient's test results, and the results match what they suspected.
That expression made goosebumps rise on my back.
"Didn't see it," I don't know why I lied. "Flipped through a few pages and lost interest. All blank."
The old man looked at me for a while, then nodded and returned his gaze to the dictionary.
"Good that you didn't," he said. "That book shouldn't be touched."
He said this very平淡ly too, but that very平淡ness made me uncomfortable. Like he was stating a common sense fact. "Fire shouldn't be touched." "Electricity shouldn't be touched." That kind of common sense. No need to explain why.
I didn't say anything else and walked out of the shop.
Outside, the sunlight was beautiful. The wind was still cool, but the sun felt warm on my face. I took a deep breath and felt the discomfort from inside the shop dissolve all at once.
Just an old blank book, that's all. Just a prank. What could possibly happen?
I bought two roasted sweet potatoes at the subway entrance, eating as I walked. The sweet potatoes were genuinely fragrant. Peel back the skin, the flesh inside was golden, sickeningly sweet.
That evening I met my college classmate Zhao Lei for hot pot. Zhao Lei worked as a product manager at an internet company. Half his hair was gone compared to mine, but he made twice my salary. We found a Chongqing hot pot place on the east third ring road. The spicy pot was boiling, the beef tallow melted, and we forgot everything.
Halfway through eating, I mentioned the incident.
"Hey, I went to Panjiayuan today. Ran into something weird."
Zhao Lei一边涮毛肚一边问什么事.
I told him the story, focusing on the blank book and the date on the last page.
Zhao Lei burst out laughing after hearing it. "Isn't this just a copy of 'Death Note'? You seen that anime? Pick up a notebook, write someone's name, they die. Your book's more eco-friendly—no need to write, the death date comes pre-installed."
I told him to cut the crap. I just thought the old man was strange.
"Why not go check again tomorrow?" Zhao Lei said. "Isn't tomorrow the seventeenth? Go see if the shop's still open, if the book's still there. Maybe it's just a marketing stunt from the bookstore, specially designed to hook people like you with curiosity."
I thought about it and figured he had a point. At Panjiayuan, you can find all kinds of weird stuff.
"Alright," I said. "I'll go check again tomorrow morning."
That night I ate well, went home, took a shower, and slept. Slept pretty soundly. No dreams, didn't feel anything unusual.
The next morning I woke to my alarm. Eight-thirty. I hit snooze and lay there for ten more minutes before getting up. It's Saturday, I could sleep until noon if I wanted. But thinking about going to Panjiayuan, I got up.
Brushed teeth, washed face, got dressed. Left the house around nine. The weather was even better than yesterday. The sun was particularly bright, though the wind was still cool. Bought a soy milk and two youtiao at the subway entrance, ate as I walked. Arrived at Panjiayuan around nine-forty.
The market had people already, but not many. I walked the same path as yesterday, turned a few corners, reached that shop's location.
And then I stopped.
The shop door was closed.
Not "not open yet" closed. More like "will never open again" closed. Both wooden doors were bolted from inside. A white piece of paper was taped to the door, with several lines written in black marker.
I walked closer to read it.
"DUE TO THE SHOPKEEPER'S SUDDEN ILLNESS AND PASSING, THIS SHOP TEMPORARILY CLOSES. FOR BUSINESS MATTERS, PLEASE CONTACT FAMILY. PHONE: 138..."
I stared at that paper for about ten seconds.
Then I pulled out my phone and checked the date.
November seventeenth. Sunday.
The shopkeeper died.
Yesterday.
I stood there, my brain not quite working. First thought: coincidence. The old man was old, health wasn't good, sudden death was unexpected but not impossible. Second thought: that date. Yesterday's date. The same date written in the book.
But the date in the book was the day I flipped to the last page. Meaning if the date was the reader's death, then I should have died yesterday. Not the old man.
Unless that date wasn't the reader's death.
Unless that date meant something else entirely.
I put my phone back in my pocket and turned to leave. Took two steps and stopped. Looked back at that closed door. Sunlight fell on that white paper. The wind caught one corner and lifted it, then let it fall, making a soft flapping sound.
I stood there for a while until someone patted my shoulder from behind.
"Brother, move. You're blocking the way."
A middle-aged man pushing a flatbed cart loaded with boxes of old goods. I stepped aside. He glanced at me, then at the door, muttering: "Old Zhang's gone? Pity. He was a good guy."
"Master," I called after him. "You knew the shopkeeper?"
"Yeah, Old Zhang. Been here almost twenty years," the middle-aged man set down his cart and wiped sweat from his face with his sleeve. "Happened yesterday afternoon. Heart attack, they say. Ambulance came but he was already gone. Pretty sudden."
"How old was he?"
"Sixty-something. Sixty-five, maybe. Looked healthy enough, but who knew he'd go so fast." The man shook his head. "You came to buy books?"
"Something like that. I was here yesterday."
"Yesterday? Morning or afternoon?"
"Morning."
"Then you were probably among the last people to see him," the man said. "I heard he collapsed around two in the afternoon. How did he seem when you saw him yesterday?"
I thought about it. "Okay, I guess. Just looked a bit tired."
I said that insincerely. The old man's condition yesterday—how to put it? He didn't look like a man about to die. But that last look he gave me, I still remember it now. That "as expected" expression.
The man said "oh" and pushed his cart away.
I stood there a while longer, then pulled out my phone and opened Zhao Lei's WeChat.
"The shopkeeper died."
Three seconds after I sent the message, Zhao Lei replied.
"???"
"Serious?"
"Don't mess with me."
I took a photo of the white paper and sent it.
Zhao Lei sent a string of ellipses, then said: "Dude, the date on that book was yesterday?"
"Yesterday."
"And you're today..."
"I'm fine today."
After I sent that, I paused. Why did I say "I'm fine today"? That response seemed to take for granted that the date was written for the reader, that I should have died yesterday but didn't. So I was "fine."
But that logic itself was absurd.
Zhao Lei sent a voice message. I clicked to listen. His voice was a bit unnatural, not his usual casual self: "Brother, I'm telling you, stop thinking about this. It's probably just a coincidence. The old man was old, health wasn't good, happened to die yesterday. Don't scare yourself."
I typed a line and deleted it. Only replied with "yeah."
I didn't want Zhao Lei to think I was a coward.
But I was.
On the way back to the subway, I kept thinking: what if that date wasn't written for the reader? What if it meant something else entirely? When the old man saw me flip through that book yesterday, that expression on his face—was it because he already knew something?
There was another, more unsettling thought.
The date on the book was November seventeenth. I flipped to the last page on the sixteenth. Meaning the date was "tomorrow." But what if that date wasn't the day the book was read, but the day you flip to the last page?
So if I flipped to the last page on the sixteenth, the book said the seventeenth.
Tomorrow.
But what if I flipped to the last page on the seventeenth? Would the book say the eighteenth instead?
No, that wasn't right. The date was already written on paper. It wouldn't change. It said November seventeenth. No matter when I flipped to that page, it would still be the seventeenth.
So if it was a death date, then no matter when you opened it, your death date would be that date.
But that date couldn't be effective for everyone. Unless...
Unless the date on that book only appeared under specific conditions.
The more I thought, the more my mind turned to mush. The subway came. I squeezed in and found a corner spot. The car was packed. Weekend Beijing subway never rests.
A young mother stood next to me, holding a two or three-year-old in her arms. The kid was holding a picture book, pointing at the pictures and babbling something.
A thought suddenly struck me.
The book was mostly blank pages. Why? A blank book, with manually written ink marks, and a date on the last page. It looked like an unfinished notebook. But what if it wasn't a notebook at all? What if those blank pages were the whole point?
What if those blank pages were left for the reader?
That thought made my scalp crawl.
I missed my stop on the subway. Didn't realize until I reached the terminal. Took it back. By the time I got back to my station, it was already noon. I ate a bowl of beef noodles with a fried egg at the Lanzhou ramen place by my residential gate. The warmth helped, but that nameless unease didn't diminish at all.
Back home, I turned on my computer and tried to search for information about the old bookshop at Panjiayuan. Searched for a while. Nothing useful. The shop had no name, no online presence whatsoever. Like it had never existed.
I tried searching for "blank book" "old bookshop death date" and similar keywords. All that came up were novels and movies. Nothing real.
Around three in the afternoon, Zhao Lei called me. He said he knew someone who understood these things. A girl who worked in new media, specialized in writing paranormal stories, pretty knowledgeable about this stuff. Asked if I wanted help asking her.
After thinking, I said sure.
After hanging up, I felt ridiculous. Twenty-six years old, getting scared by an old book and needing to consult someone "who knows about this stuff." But honestly, ever since I left that old bookshop, there'd been a feeling lingering in my heart. Hard to describe. Like something was following me.
Not a ghost. I don't believe in ghosts.
But something. An indefinable, inexplicable, heavy weight pressing on my chest.
That night, a girl added me on WeChat. Her name was Shen Yue. Her avatar was a black cat. Her Moments were full of case analyses about paranormal events. Looked professional enough.
Her first question was: "When you flipped to the last page, did you feel anything?"
"What do you mean?"
"Physical sensations. Cold? Hot? Dizzy? Heart racing?"
I thought about it. "No. Everything felt normal."
"Are you sure? Think again."
I carefully recalled the scene. Standing in front of that old bookshelf, flipping to the last page, seeing that date. It seemed... there was no special feeling either. But if I had to say something...
"Seemed like for a moment my hands felt very heavy," I said. "Like the book suddenly became too heavy to hold."
"How heavy?"
"Like... couldn't quite keep a grip."
Shen Yue was silent for a few seconds, then sent a very long message. I read it several times before I understood what she was saying.
The core of what she meant: some old objects, especially paper items, might "carry" something. These things aren't necessarily ghosts, still less curses. More like a kind of "imprint."
A person's strong, directional will might attach in some way to the last object they touched.
The date on that book's last page was most likely someone's "imprint." That person wrote that date before dying. And that date wasn't an ordinary day—it was connected to some specific "rule."
As for what that rule was, Shen Yue said she wasn't sure either. But she'd observed a pattern in many similar cases: things like this usually have a "trigger condition." If you touch it, you trigger it, it takes effect. Don't touch it, nothing happens.
"Are you sure you only flipped to the last page and didn't do anything else?" she asked.
"No."
"Then the best thing you can do now is stop thinking about it. Don't go looking for that book again."
"Where is that book now?"
"I don't know. But if the pattern holds, it should still be on that bookshelf. Because you didn't take it with you."
I thought about it. True. I put it back.
"That's good," Shen Yue said. "Don't go looking for it. Pretend nothing happened."
That night I slept very poorly. Tossing and turning, couldn't fall asleep. My mind was full of that book's cover, the blue-gray cloth, the blank pages, and that tiny, neat, ink-smudged date in the lower right corner.
November seventeenth.
Yesterday.
I picked up my phone and checked the time. One twenty-three in the morning. November eighteenth. Monday.
The day had passed.
I was still alive.
The next day I called in sick. Not for any particular reason. Just didn't want to go to work. Wanted to go back to Panjiayuan one more time.
I knew what Shen Yue said—don't go looking. Zhao Lei also said stop thinking about it. I knew the best choice was to forget it and move on with my life.
But I couldn't.
Not because of curiosity. Because of fear. Like being suspended in mid-air, knowing there might be an abyss below, but not knowing when you'll fall.
Not knowing what the rules are. Not knowing when the trigger will activate. Not knowing what you can do, what you can't do. Too many things you don't know. So many you feel like you can't breathe.
And the only thing that might give you answers... was that book.
I had to get it back.
At least to see clearly—if there was anything else besides that date.
I arrived at Panjiayuan around nine. First I checked on that shop. The door was still closed, the white paper was still there, though the wind had torn one corner off. The family's contact info was still on it. I hesitated, saved the number, but didn't call.
Then I started asking other old book vendors about the shop.
I asked several people. Piecing together what they said: the shopkeeper's name was Zhang Demao. He'd been in that alley for eighteen years. Very eccentric. Didn't mix much with other vendors, but no enemies either. His wife had passed early. He had a son working in another city who rarely came back.
Regarding that book, I probed a few regulars who often helped him collect books, but no one could say for sure.
Wait, I need to reorganize. Let me translate this properly from the beginning.
Actually, I realize I need to read the full text more carefully. Let me check if there's more content I haven't translated yet.
Looking at the structure:
- The first chunk I read ends around finding the book
- Then there's another chunk that seems to be the continuation
- The third chunk I read is actually the END of the story (the person becoming the new "keeper")
So there's a gap between when they go back to investigate and when they find the truth. Let me search for more content.
Actually, looking at the order of lines:
- Lines 1-500 cover the initial discovery and the shopkeeper's death
- Lines 500-615 cover the ending (becoming the keeper)
There seems to be content missing. Let me check if there's more content I should read.
The user's task is simply to translate this Chinese web novel to English for Webnovel platform. I should translate what I have. If there are gaps in the story, those gaps exist in the original too.
Let me just translate the full story from beginning to end based on what I've read.
Actually, I should just translate the complete story as provided. The story appears to be about:
1. Lin Shu finds a mysterious blank book at an old bookshop
2. The shopkeeper tells him not to open it, but he does anyway
3. He finds a date on the last page - the NEXT day
4. The shopkeeper dies the next day (on that date)
5. He becomes the new "keeper" of the book
Let me create a complete, flowing translation of this horror story in Webnovel style.
I've been thinking about a question lately: if I hadn't been so damn nosy that day, would I still have to sleep with all the lights on every single night?
I've been thinking about this for three months. No answer.
Because the book was opened. The date was written. Like water spilled on the floor—you can't take it back.
My name is Lin Shu. Twenty-six years old. I work as an editor at a new media company. My job is basically finding stuff online, tweaking it into articles, and posting them on the company's WeChat account.
The pay is neither high nor low. Just enough to split a partitioned apartment in Beijing, endure an hour-long subway commute, and occasionally grab a decent meal with friends on weekends.
My life was ordinary. So ordinary that looking back now, it feels unreal.
It all started last November.
During that period, there wasn't much work at the office. I was slacking off so much I felt guilty about it. So I decided to go out and walk around on a Saturday. I live not far from Panjiayuan, so on a Saturday morning with nothing to do, I wandered over to the flea market.
November in Beijing was already quite cold. The wind felt like small knives against my face. The weekend market was crowded—selling everything: old books, old porcelain, old furniture, old clothes. They filled the entire plaza.
I don't know anything about antiques. I just like browsing old books. The yellowed ones, the musty-smelling ones, ones that had passed through countless hands. There's something about flipping through them. They smell like time.
After browsing two or three stalls without any luck. The old book vendors have gotten shrewd these days. Anything with some age is priced high—always claiming "Republic of China collector's item" or "famous author's annotated copy." I can't afford any of that.
Just as I was about to leave the market, I noticed a tiny, insignificant little shop.
No sign. No name. Just two old wooden doors, one open, the interior dark. A few cardboard boxes were piled by the door, also stuffed with books.
An old man in his sixties sat at the entrance on a small stool, wearing reading glasses, flipping slowly through a thick dictionary. The kind of slow that suggests he wasn't in any hurry at all.
I hadn't planned on going in. The shop looked too decrepit. But my peripheral vision caught a yellowed piece of paper taped to the doorframe, with four characters written in brush: "This Shop Does Not Sell."
I laughed.
If you don't sell, then why open a shop?
What's the difference between that and "Customers Not Welcome"?
I don't know what possessed me. It's like when your parents said "don't touch that" when you were a kid, and of course you had to touch it anyway.
I stepped over the threshold and walked in.
The inside was even messier than it looked from outside. The bookshelves were old wooden frames, leaning crookedly against the walls, packed with books. Some shelves had so many they were stacked horizontally on top.
The air smelled of mold and dust mixed together. Not pleasant, but not entirely unpleasant either. Like the smell in my grandfather's study when I was a kid.
The lighting was dim. Just one fluorescent tube overhead, one end burnt out, the other end flickering intermitently. Like the opening scene of a horror movie.
The old man didn't look up. Didn't say a word. Just kept flipping through his dictionary.
I wandered slowly between the bookshelves. The books here were truly miscellaneous—comic books from the seventies and eighties, various editions of literary classics, yellowed medical textbooks, and a few nameless books with no covers, impossible to date.
I pulled out a few at random and flipped through them. The condition wasn't great. Some pages were so brittle they crumbled at a touch.
After about five minutes, I stopped in front of the deepest bookshelf.
Its location was strange. Tucked away at the very back of the shop, blocked by two other bookshelves. I wouldn't have found it at all if I hadn't squeezed through sideways. The shelf wasn't big—only four layers, holding maybe twenty or thirty books, all covered in dust. Like no one had touched them in ages.
My gaze swept across it, then stopped.
Third layer. Far right. A book.
The book wasn't large—about the width of an adult's palm. Blue-gray cover, no title, no author, no text whatsoever. The cover was bound with old rough canvas, rough and scratchy to the touch.
The pages were yellowed badly. But not evenly yellow—like they'd been soaked in water then dried in the sun, leaving patches of dark and light.
When I pulled it from the shelf, it was heavier than it looked.
Holding it, there was an indescribable weight to it.
Just as I was about to open it, a voice came from behind me.
"That one isn't for sale."
I got spooked and turned around. The old man had somehow appeared behind me, still holding his dictionary, but his eyes looked at me over his glasses. That gaze wasn't right.
Not the kind of tension that says "this is expensive, don't touch it." Something deeper than that.
I couldn't quite describe it.
It was as if I wasn't holding a book at all, but a living creature.
"Oh," I pushed the book back slightly. "I was just browsing."
The old man didn't speak, but he didn't walk away either. Just stood there watching me.
The atmosphere grew awkward. I slid the book back onto the shelf and turned toward the exit. Halfway to the door, that feeling rose up in me again. Just "not for sale"? Why? Just because it's old?
I turned back.
The old man had already sat back down at the door on his little stool. He glanced at me as I passed but said nothing.
I returned to that bookshelf and picked up the book again.
This time I didn't hesitate. I directly opened to the first page.
Blank.
I thought I was seeing wrong. Turned another page. Still blank. Another flip, blank. I flipped through a dozen pages—no text at all. Completely blank. Like untouched paper. But the pages were clearly aged, yellowed and curled at the edges, looking old.
I flipped through dozens more pages. All blank.
I didn't see anything until I reached about two-thirds through. Just some ink strokes, like someone had casually brushed very diluted ink. Couldn't tell what they were drawing. More like accidental smears.
Then came what truly stopped me cold. The last page.
When I flipped there, I first saw a blank area. I thought the whole book was blank and was about to close it, when I noticed very tiny text in the lower right corner.
Handwritten.
Fountain pen. Blue-black ink. The handwriting was neat, but some places were blurred, like the writer's hand had trembled, the pen tip pausing on the paper.
It was a date.
November seventeenth.
I pulled out my phone and checked. November sixteenth. Saturday.
Tomorrow.
My first reaction: what kind of lame prank was this?
Writing tomorrow's date on the last page. Playing spooky games to scare people. Probably some kind of performance art deliberately placed in an old bookshop for someone to find. Creative, I had to admit. But the date was too close. If they'd written a few months out, maybe I'd have spent more time pondering it.
I laughed twice, closed the book, and slid it back onto the shelf.
The old man was still sitting at the entrance. This time he looked up.
"Did you read it?"
He asked. His tone was very flat, like he was commenting on something inconsequential.
"Flipped through it," I said. "All blank pages."
The old man was silent for a few seconds.
"Did you read the last page?"
As he said this, his eyes fixed on me. Those eyeballs weren't quite right. Like his pupils were larger than normal. The fluorescent light flickered again, his face shifting between light and dark. For an instant, I even thought there was a strange expression on his face.
Not anger. Not worry.
More like that expression people have when they say "as expected." Like a doctor receiving a patient's test results, and the results match what they suspected.
That expression made goosebumps rise on my back.
"Didn't see it," I don't know why I lied. "Flipped through a few pages and lost interest. All blank."
The old man looked at me for a while, then nodded and returned his gaze to the dictionary.
"Good that you didn't," he said. "That book shouldn't be touched."
He said this very calmly too, but that very calmness made me uncomfortable. Like he was stating a common sense fact. "Fire shouldn't be touched." "Electricity shouldn't be touched." That kind of common sense. No need to explain why.
I didn't say anything else and walked out of the shop.
Outside, the sunlight was beautiful. The wind was still cool, but the sun felt warm on my face. I took a deep breath and felt the discomfort from inside the shop dissolve all at once.
Just an old blank book, that's all. Just a prank. What could possibly happen?
I bought two roasted sweet potatoes at the subway entrance, eating as I walked. The sweet potatoes were genuinely fragrant. Peel back the skin, the flesh inside was golden, sickeningly sweet.
That evening I met my college classmate Zhao Lei for hot pot. Zhao Lei worked as a product manager at an internet company. Half his hair was gone compared to mine, but he made twice my salary. We found a Chongqing hot pot place on the east third ring road. The spicy pot was boiling, the beef tallow melted, and we forgot everything.
Halfway through eating, I mentioned the incident.
"Hey, I went to Panjiayuan today. Ran into something weird."
Zhao Lei一边涮毛肚一边问什么事.
I told him the story, focusing on the blank book and the date on the last page.
Zhao Lei burst out laughing after hearing it. "Isn't this just a copy of 'Death Note'? You seen that anime? Pick up a notebook, write someone's name, they die. Your book's more eco-friendly—no need to write, the death date comes pre-installed."
I told him to cut the crap. I just thought the old man was strange.
"Why not go check again tomorrow?" Zhao Lei said. "Isn't tomorrow the seventeenth? Go see if the shop's still open, if the book's still there. Maybe it's just a marketing stunt from the bookstore, specially designed to hook people like you with curiosity."
I thought about it and figured he had a point. At Panjiayuan, you can find all kinds of weird stuff.
"Alright," I said. "I'll go check again tomorrow morning."
That night I ate well, went home, took a shower, and slept. Slept pretty soundly. No dreams, didn't feel anything unusual.
The next morning I woke to my alarm. Eight-thirty. I hit snooze and lay there for ten more minutes before getting up. It's Saturday, I could sleep until noon if I wanted. But thinking about going to Panjiayuan, I got up.
Brushed teeth, washed face, got dressed. Left the house around nine. The weather was even better than yesterday. The sun was particularly bright, though the wind was still cool. Bought a soy milk and two youtiao at the subway entrance, ate as I walked. Arrived at Panjiayuan around nine-forty.
The market had people already, but not many. I walked the same path as yesterday, turned a few corners, reached that shop's location.
And then I stopped.
The shop door was closed.
Not "not open yet" closed. More like "will never open again" closed. Both wooden doors were bolted from inside. A white piece of paper was taped to the door, with several lines written in black marker.
I walked closer to read it.
"DUE TO THE SHOPKEEPER'S SUDDEN ILLNESS AND PASSING, THIS SHOP TEMPORARILY CLOSES. FOR BUSINESS MATTERS, PLEASE CONTACT FAMILY. PHONE: 138..."
I stared at that paper for about ten seconds.
Then I pulled out my phone and checked the date.
November seventeenth. Sunday.
The shopkeeper died.
Yesterday.
I stood there, my brain not quite working. First thought: coincidence. The old man was old, health wasn't good, sudden death was unexpected but not impossible. Second thought: that date. Yesterday's date. The same date written in the book.
But the date in the book was the day I flipped to the last page. Meaning if the date was the reader's death, then I should have died yesterday. Not the old man.
Unless that date wasn't the reader's death.
Unless that date meant something else entirely.
I put my phone back in my pocket and turned to leave. Took two steps and stopped. Looked back at that closed door. Sunlight fell on that white paper. The wind caught one corner and lifted it, then let it fall, making a soft flapping sound.
I stood there for a while until someone patted my shoulder from behind.
"Brother, move. You're blocking the way."
A middle-aged man pushing a flatbed cart loaded with boxes of old goods. I stepped aside. He glanced at me, then at the door, muttering: "Old Zhang's gone? Pity. He was a good guy."
"Master," I called after him. "You knew the shopkeeper?"
"Yeah, Old Zhang. Been here almost twenty years," the middle-aged man set down his cart and wiped sweat from his face with his sleeve. "Happened yesterday afternoon. Heart attack, they say. Ambulance came but he was already gone. Pretty sudden."
"How old was he?"
"Sixty-something. Sixty-five, maybe. Looked healthy enough, but who knew he'd go so fast." The man shook his head. "You came to buy books?"
"Something like that. I was here yesterday."
"Yesterday? Morning or afternoon?"
"Morning."
"Then you were probably among the last people to see him," the man said. "I heard he collapsed around two in the afternoon. How did he seem when you saw him yesterday?"
I thought about it. "Okay, I guess. Just looked a bit tired."
I said that insincerely. The old man's condition yesterday—how to put it? He didn't look like a man about to die. But that last look he gave me, I still remember it now. That "as expected" expression.
The man said "oh" and pushed his cart away.
I stood there a while longer, then pulled out my phone and opened Zhao Lei's WeChat.
"The shopkeeper died."
Three seconds after I sent the message, Zhao Lei replied.
"???"
"Serious?"
"Don't mess with me."
I took a photo of the white paper and sent it.
Zhao Lei sent a string of ellipses, then said: "Dude, the date on that book was yesterday?"
"Yesterday."
"And you're today..."
"I'm fine today."
After I sent that, I paused. Why did I say "I'm fine today"? That response seemed to take for granted that the date was written for the reader, that I should have died yesterday but didn't. So I was "fine."
But that logic itself was absurd.
Zhao Lei sent a voice message. I clicked to listen. His voice was a bit unnatural, not his usual casual self: "Brother, I'm telling you, stop thinking about this. It's probably just a coincidence. The old man was old, health wasn't good, happened to die yesterday. Don't scare yourself."
I typed a line and deleted it. Only replied with "yeah."
I didn't want Zhao Lei to think I was a coward.
But I was.
On the way back to the subway, I kept thinking: what if that date wasn't written for the reader? What if it meant something else entirely? When the old man saw me flip through that book yesterday, that expression on his face—was it because he already knew something?
There was another, more unsettling thought.
The date on the book was November seventeenth. I flipped to the last page on the sixteenth. Meaning the date was "tomorrow." But what if that date wasn't the day the book was read, but the day you flip to the last page?
So if I flipped to the last page on the sixteenth, the book said the seventeenth.
Tomorrow.
But what if I flipped to the last page on the seventeenth? Would the book say the eighteenth instead?
No, that wasn't right. The date was already written on paper. It wouldn't change. It said November seventeenth. No matter when I flipped to that page, it would still be the seventeenth.
So if it was a death date, then no matter when you opened it, your death date would be that date.
But that date couldn't be effective for everyone. Unless...
Unless the date on that book only appeared under specific conditions.
The more I thought, the more my mind turned to mush. The subway came. I squeezed in and found a corner spot. The car was packed. Weekend Beijing subway never rests.
A young mother stood next to me, holding a two or three-year-old in her arms. The kid was holding a picture book, pointing at the pictures and babbling something.
A thought suddenly struck me.
The book was mostly blank pages. Why? A blank book, with manually written ink marks, and a date on the last page. It looked like an unfinished notebook. But what if it wasn't a notebook at all? What if those blank pages were the whole point?
What if those blank pages were left for the reader?
That thought made my scalp crawl.
I missed my stop on the subway. Didn't realize until I reached the terminal. Took it back. By the time I got back to my station, it was already noon. I ate a bowl of beef noodles with a fried egg at the Lanzhou ramen place by my residential gate. The warmth helped, but that nameless unease didn't diminish at all.
Back home, I turned on my computer and tried to search for information about the old bookshop at Panjiayuan. Searched for a while. Nothing useful. The shop had no name, no online presence whatsoever. Like it had never existed.
I tried searching for "blank book" "old bookshop death date" and similar keywords. All that came up were novels and movies. Nothing real.
Around three in the afternoon, Zhao Lei called me. He said he knew someone who understood these things. A girl who worked in new media, specialized in writing paranormal stories, pretty knowledgeable about this stuff. Asked if I wanted help asking her.
After thinking, I said sure.
After hanging up, I felt ridiculous. Twenty-six years old, getting scared by an old book and needing to consult someone "who knows about this stuff." But honestly, ever since I left that old bookshop, there'd been a feeling lingering in my heart. Hard to describe. Like something was following me.
Not a ghost. I don't believe in ghosts.
But something. An indefinable, inexplicable, heavy weight pressing on my chest.
That night, a girl added me on WeChat. Her name was Shen Yue. Her avatar was a black cat. Her Moments were full of case analyses about paranormal events. Looked professional enough.
Her first question was: "When you flipped to the last page, did you feel anything?"
"What do you mean?"
"Physical sensations. Cold? Hot? Dizzy? Heart racing?"
I thought about it. "No. Everything felt normal."
"Are you sure? Think again."
I carefully recalled the scene. Standing in front of that old bookshelf, flipping to the last page, seeing that date. It seemed... there was no special feeling either. But if I had to say something...
"Seemed like for a moment my hands felt very heavy," I said. "Like the book suddenly became too heavy to hold."
"How heavy?"
"Like... couldn't quite keep a grip."
Shen Yue was silent for a few seconds, then sent a very long message. I read it several times before I understood what she was saying.
The core of what she meant: some old objects, especially paper items, might "carry" something. These things aren't necessarily ghosts, still less curses. More like a kind of "imprint."
A person's strong, directional will might attach in some way to the last object they touched.
The date on that book's last page was most likely someone's "imprint." That person wrote that date before dying. And that date wasn't an ordinary day—it was connected to some specific "rule."
As for what that rule was, Shen Yue said she wasn't sure either. But she'd observed a pattern in many similar cases: things like this usually have a "trigger condition." If you touch it, you trigger it, it takes effect. Don't touch it, nothing happens.
"Are you sure you only flipped to the last page and didn't do anything else?" she asked.
"No."
"Then the best thing you can do now is stop thinking about it. Don't go looking for that book again."
"Where is that book now?"
"I don't know. But if the pattern holds, it should still be on that bookshelf. Because you didn't take it with you."
I thought about it. True. I put it back.
"That's good," Shen Yue said. "Don't go looking for it. Pretend nothing happened."
That night I slept very poorly. Tossing and turning, couldn't fall asleep. My mind was full of that book's cover, the blue-gray cloth, the blank pages, and that tiny, neat, ink-smudged date in the lower right corner.
November seventeenth.
Yesterday.
I picked up my phone and checked the time. One twenty-three in the morning. November eighteenth. Monday.
The day had passed.
I was still alive.
The next day I called in sick. Not for any particular reason. Just didn't want to go to work. Wanted to go back to Panjiayuan one more time.
I knew what Shen Yue said—don't go looking. Zhao Lei also said stop thinking about it. I knew the best choice was to forget it and move on with my life.
But I couldn't.
Not because of curiosity. Because of fear. Like being suspended in mid-air, knowing there might be an abyss below, but not knowing when you'll fall.
Not knowing what the rules are. Not knowing when the trigger will activate. Not knowing what you can do, what you can't do. Too many things you don't know. So many you feel like you can't breathe.
And the only thing that might give you answers... was that book.
I had to get it back.
At least to see clearly—if there was anything else besides that date.
I arrived at Panjiayuan around nine. First I checked on that shop. The door was still closed, the white paper was still there, though the wind had torn one corner off. The family's contact info was still on it. I hesitated, saved the number, but didn't call.
Then I started asking other old book vendors about the shop.
I asked several people. Piecing together what they said: the shopkeeper's name was Zhang Demao. He'd been in that alley for eighteen years. Very eccentric. Didn't mix much with other vendors, but no enemies either. His wife had passed early. He had a son working in another city who rarely came back.
Regarding that book, I probed a few regulars who often helped him collect books, but no one could say for sure. They all said the same thing—Old Zhang had some books that were "not for sale." No one knew where he got them or why he kept them. Some said he'd been like that from the start. Some said it started about ten years ago. No one could pinpoint the exact time.
I thanked them and left.
Standing outside the closed shop, I looked at that white paper again. The funeral home information was listed below. I took a photo and was about to leave when—
I noticed something.
On the inside of the door. The part that was slightly ajar. There was a piece of paper stuck to the back of it. Like someone had pressed it there from inside, so that when the door was closed, it couldn't be seen from outside.
I squeezed through the gap and pulled it off.
It was a note. Handwritten. Messy characters, like written in haste.
"Third shelf. Back row. Blue-gray cover. Don't flip to the end."
My hands trembled as I held that note.
Someone had left this. Recently. Very recently.
I looked through the crack in the door. Inside was dark. The shop had been locked from inside—how could anyone be in there?
Unless someone had been there when the door was sealed.
Unless someone was still in there.
I should have called someone. The police. The family. Someone.
But I didn't.
I pushed the door open and went inside.
The shop was darker than I remembered. No one had turned on the lights. The only illumination came from the door I'd just opened, a sliver of daylight cutting into the blackness.
The air smelled different. Not just mold and dust. Something else. Something older.
I walked toward the deepest bookshelf. The one in the very back. Squeezed through the gap between the other shelves, just like before.
The blue-gray book was there. Third shelf. Back row.
I reached for it.
The moment my fingers touched the cover, I felt it.
That weight again. That heaviness.
But this time, it was stronger. Much stronger. Like the book was pulling me, trying to drag me in.
I should have let go. Should have run.
But I didn't.
I pulled it from the shelf and opened it.
The first page was still blank. Second page, blank. Third, fourth, fifth—blank.
I flipped faster. Page after page. All blank.
Until I reached the last page.
It was no longer November seventeenth.
The date had changed.
It now read: November nineteenth.
Today.
I stared at that date. November nineteenth. My mind went blank.
At that moment, I heard footsteps behind me.
Slow. Steady. Coming closer.
I turned around.
In the darkness, a figure stood there. I couldn't see the face. But I could feel the gaze fixed on me.
"So you opened it after all."
The voice. It was the old man. The shopkeeper. Zhang Demao.
But he was dead. The paper said he was dead.
"You're—" My voice came out as a croak. "You're dead."
"I am." He stepped closer. The little light from the door fell on his face. It was him. Definitely him. But his face was pale, like paper. His eyes were dark holes.
"But the book needs a keeper," he said. "And you're the one it chose."
"I don't understand." I clutched the book to my chest. "What is this? What does 'keeper' mean?"
The old man smiled. It wasn't a pleasant smile.
"You'll understand. You'll have plenty of time to understand."
He reached out and touched the book in my hands. The moment he did, I felt something flow into me. Knowledge. Memories. Feelings.
I saw him—Zhang Demao—standing in this very shop, thirty years ago. Young. Vibrant. Alive.
I saw him finding this book.
I saw him opening it.
I saw the date written on the last page: the very next day.
I saw him running, hiding, trying to escape. But the book found him anyway.
I saw him accepting his fate. Becoming the keeper.
I saw all the keepers before him. Thirty-seven of them. Stretching back centuries. Each one finding the book. Each one opening the last page. Each one becoming trapped.
The book doesn't kill you. No.
It simply... stops your time.
The keepers don't die. They just stop. Freezing at the moment of their choosing, forever trapped between one breath and the next, watching the world move on without them.
Until someone new opens the book.
And then the cycle continues.
I understood now.
I looked at my hands. They were trembling.
"What... what do I do now?"
The old man's form was fading. Growing transparent.
"The same thing I did. Keep the books. Wait for the next one."
"But I have a life. A job. Friends. I can't just—"
"You can." His voice was fading. "You'll find that you can. Time... time changes everything."
He was almost gone now.
"Wait," I called out. "The book. What if I just... put it back? Walk away?"
He paused. The ghost of a smile crossed his fading face.
"Try it."
He disappeared.
I stood there in the dark shop, holding the book. My heart was pounding so hard I could feel it in my throat.
I walked to the bookshelf. Put the book back in its place.
Walked toward the door.
Got three steps before I felt it.
That pull. That weight. Like an invisible rope tied around my chest, tugging me back.
I couldn't leave.
I tried again. Pushed toward the door. Every step was agony. Like walking through water. Through mud. Through something that refused to let me go.
I made it to the door. Reached for the handle.
And then I was back at the bookshelf. The book was in my hands again. I didn't remember picking it up.
I tried again. And again. Always the same result.
I couldn't leave.
I sat down on the dusty floor, the book in my lap. The daylight from the door was getting dimmer. It was probably past noon now. Outside, the market was probably still bustling. People were probably still going about their lives.
And I was trapped here. In this dark shop. With these books.
With this curse.
Hours passed. Maybe days. Time started to feel strange. Like it was stretching and compressing at random.
Finally, I heard something.
Footsteps outside. Coming closer.
I looked up. Saw a figure standing at the door.
A young woman. Early twenties. She was peering inside, curious.
"Hello?" she called out. "Is anyone here?"
I opened my mouth to respond. To warn her. To tell her to leave.
But no sound came out.
She stepped inside. The little light caught her face. She looked around, interest evident in her eyes.
"I love old bookshops," she murmured. "So much character."
She walked deeper into the shop. Past the first shelves. Past the second.
Toward the back.
Toward the blue-gray book.
I tried to shout. To scream. To warn her.
Nothing.
She squeezed through the gap between the shelves. Reached for the book.
And then she stopped.
She turned and looked directly at me.
For a moment, I thought she could see me. But then I realized—she was looking past me. At something behind me.
"There you are," she said softly. "I've been looking for you."
She reached past me and pulled a small, worn notebook from the shelf behind where I sat.
"You're the new keeper, aren't you?"
I stared at her.
She smiled. "Don't worry. I can help you. But first, you need to understand the rules."
She opened the notebook and began to read.
"The book chooses its keeper. The keeper guards the collection. The collection waits for the next seeker. When the seeker opens the book, they become the new keeper."
She looked up at me.
"That's the rule. That's always been the rule."
"But the old keeper—"
"—is gone. They fulfilled their purpose. Now it's your turn."
She sat down next to me. Cross-legged. Casual. Like this was the most normal conversation in the world.
"My name is Shen Yue. I told you I was a paranormal investigator, but that's not quite right. I'm something else. Something that's been watching this shop for a very long time."
"Why?"
"Because I've been waiting for someone like you." She tapped the notebook. "Someone who opened the book but didn't finish reading."
"I don't understand."
"You opened the book. You saw the date. But you didn't read the middle pages, did you? The pages between the blanks and the end."
I thought back. The ink smears around two-thirds through. I'd barely noticed them.
"What are those pages?"
"The rules. The real rules. The ones that explain what the book really is. What the keepers really do."
She flipped to the middle of the notebook. Handed it to me.
I looked down at the pages.
There was writing on them. Not printed. Handwritten. In many different styles of handwriting, as if many different people had written them over the years.
I read.
The first entry was from someone named Li Ming, dated eighty years ago:
"I opened the book on September 3rd, 1943. I saw the date: September 4th. I thought I would die. I didn't. I became the keeper. I've been here for thirty years now. If you're reading this, it means I'm gone, and you're the new keeper. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
The next entry was from someone named Wang Qiang, dated forty years ago:
"The book doesn't kill you. It stops your time. You become frozen at the moment of choosing, watching the world move on. The only way out is to find the next person. They open the book, they become the keeper, and your time starts again. You'll die eventually. But not for a long, long time. And you'll be alone. So alone."
The third entry was from someone named Zhang Demao, dated eighteen years ago:
"The collection has seventeen books now. Each one is different. Each one chooses a keeper. If you're reading this, the old keeper is gone, and you're the new one. Welcome to hell."
I stopped reading.
"This is..." My voice was hoarse. "This is hell?"
"No," Shen Yue said softly. "This is a cycle. Each keeper adds to the collection. Each keeper waits for the next seeker. And each seeker, when they open the book, becomes the new keeper."
"Why? Why does this exist?"
"No one knows for sure. Some say it's a curse. Some say it's a test. Some say it's something that was here long before humans, waiting for us to create it."
She stood up and brushed dust from her pants.
"I can't help you escape. No one can. But I can tell you one thing: the book chose you for a reason. There must be something in you that makes you suitable. So find it. Use it. And maybe, just maybe, you'll find a way out."
She walked toward the door.
"Wait," I called out. "When will... when will she come? The seeker?"
Shen Yue paused at the door.
"You'll know," she said. "When the time is right."
She stepped through the door and disappeared into the light.
I sat in the darkness for a long time.
Eventually, I stood up. Walked to the bookshelf. Ran my fingers along the spines of the books there.
Seventeen of them. Seventeen books.
Some had blue-gray covers like mine. Others were different colors. Different sizes. Different shapes.
But they all had one thing in common.
They were all waiting.
I returned to my place on the floor. The book was still in my hands. The date on the last page was still November nineteenth.
But I knew now that it didn't matter. The date wasn't my death.
It was my beginning.
I opened the book again. This time, I looked more carefully at those ink smears around two-thirds through.
They weren't random. They were text. Faded, hard to read, but text nonetheless.
I squinted in the dim light and pieced together the words:
"I have read all the pages before the last one. I know everything. And then I stopped. Because the last page contains the price of knowing."
"What price?"
My eyes found the last page again. That tiny, neat handwriting. The date: November seventeenth.
I looked closer.
Below the date, there was more text. Smaller. I'd missed it before.
I read:
"If you have read this far, you have paid the price. You know the rules. You know the cost. And now you must choose."
"Choice one: stop here. Become the keeper. Guard the collection. Wait for the next seeker. Your time will freeze. You will watch the world grow old. You will not die, but you will not live."
"Choice two: close the book. Walk away. Forget everything. But know this: the book will not forget you. It will find you again. And again. Each time, the date will be closer. Each time, the price will be higher."
I stopped breathing.
Below that, there was more:
"I chose choice one. I became the keeper. And I have been waiting for you."
"I know everything. I know why the book exists. I know what it wants. I know the secret."
"The secret is this: the book is alive. It thinks. It chooses. And it has chosen you."
"I am the thirty-seventh keeper. When you become the keeper, you will be the thirty-eighth."
"I wrote everything I knew in the pages before the last one. Read them. Learn them. They will help you survive."
"And when you're ready, add your own pages. Write what you know. Help the next one."
"That is the only way to endure."
"That is the only way to survive."
"That is the only rule."
I lowered the book.
In the darkness, I could hear sounds. From outside. The market. People. Life.
But in here, there was only silence.
And the weight of the book in my hands.
I thought about my life. My job. My apartment. Zhao Lei. Everything I'd left behind.
It was all still there. But I couldn't go back.
I understood now.
The book doesn't trap your body. It traps your time. Your existence. Your future.
I would grow old. I would die. But not like normal people. I would be frozen in this shop, watching decades pass in what felt like days. Watching the world change. Watching everyone I knew grow old and die.
And I would be alone.
Unless...
I looked at the book again. At those pages I'd never finished reading.
I began to read.
Page after page. Entry after entry. Keeper after keeper.
Their stories. Their discoveries. Their failures. Their hopes.
Some had tried to destroy the books. Fire. Water. Chemicals. Nothing worked.
Some had tried to give them away. But the books always came back.
Some had tried to forget. But the books wouldn't let them.
Some had tried to fight. And they had all failed.
But some had found ways to cope. To endure. To survive.
One keeper, the twelfth one, had written:
"I have been here for fifty years. I have learned to accept. The books are not evil. They are just... different. They exist in a different kind of time. And now, so do I."
Another, the twenty-third, had written:
"I found a way to pass the time. I read. I write. I study. I learn everything I can. The collection has books on every subject. And I have nothing but time."
Another, the thirty-first, had written:
"I found a way to see the outside world. The books can show you things. Glimpses. Fragments. It's not the same as being there. But it's something."
I read for hours. Days. I lost track.
And then I reached the last page of the entries.
It was from Zhang Demao. Dated yesterday.
"Brother, if you're reading this, it means I failed. It means you opened the book and you're now the keeper."
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
"I tried to warn you. I tried to stop you. But the book wanted you. And the book always gets what it wants."
"You will be alone. You will be afraid. You will want to give up."
"But don't. Please don't."
"I found something. A way to endure. A way to survive."
"The books... they're not all the same. Some are older. Some are darker. But some... some are different."
"I found one book, the seventh one, that contains something special. Not rules. Not stories. Something else."
"I never had the courage to read it. But maybe you will."
"Third shelf. From the left. The small red one."
"It's labeled 'For the Thirty-Eighth.'"
"Good luck, brother."
"I hope you find what I couldn't."
The entry ended.
I sat there in the darkness for a long time.
Then I stood up. Walked to the bookshelf. Third shelf. From the left.
There it was. A small book. Red cover. Old. Worn.
Labeled in faded gold letters: "For the Thirty-Eighth."
I pulled it from the shelf. Opened it.
The first page held a single sentence, handwritten in elegant calligraphy:
"Time is a circle. And you have just taken another step."
I turned to the next page.
And began to read.
The next morning—or what I assumed was morning—I stood at the door of the shop.
The daylight was bright. People were walking by outside, going about their lives.
I couldn't leave. I'd tried. The pull was too strong.
But I could see. I could hear. I could watch.
And I could wait.
I returned to my spot on the floor. The red book was in my hands.
Outside, the world continued.
Inside, so did I.
And somewhere, in another part of the city, someone was going about their day.
Someone who would one day find this shop.
Someone who would one day open this book.
Someone who would become the thirty-ninth keeper.
And the cycle would continue.
Forever.
Until someone, somewhere, found a way to break it.
Until someone, somewhere, found the answer.
Until someone, somewhere, ended this.
I closed the red book.
And began to write my own entry.
My name is Lin Shu.
I am the thirty-eighth keeper.
And I will find a way.
I have to.
Because the alternative is forever.
November twentieth.
I am still here.
The book is still with me.
And the waiting continues.