The Book of Lost Names

A sound broke the heavy stillness of the library — a faint rustling, like the flutter of pages turning. Eliza followed it, weaving her way through the labyrinth of shelves until she reached the centre. There, illuminated by a shaft of moonlight, stood a single book on a pedestal. Its cover was bound in dark, cracked leather, embossed with a symbol she did not recognise. The title, in letters faded with age, simply read: The Lost Names.

She reached for it. The moment her fingers touched the cover, she felt a cold draft across the back of her neck. She hesitated for only a second before opening the book.

It was blank. Page after page, nothing but empty parchment glared back at her.

Just as she was about to close it, red ink started to bleed through the page, forming letters that stretched and curled in an elegant Cistercian script.

“You should not have come”.

She flipped the page. More ink spread across the next sheet.

“You have opened what was lost. Now, you must return what is owed.”

A low whisper hummed through the library. The shadows were moving, swirling around the edges of the room. She tried to shut the book, but it would not close. The pages kept turning on their own, faster and faster, blurring into one another. The shadows crept closer, whispering her name, “Eliza!”

She backed away, the book within her hands, its pages flapping wildly. The walls of the library seemed to close in, the shelves leaning forward, their spines groaning under the weight of centuries. The last page turned, and there, written in bold, unyielding letters, was a single name.

Hers.

The library doors swung shut, and the village below the hill, warm and quiet, continued on, unaware that another entry had been added to the book of lost names.