Something is wrong with this town. I felt it the moment I arrived—a silence that stretched too long, shadows that lingered a little too much. But I ignored it. Routine is comforting, and I found mine in the library. A 24-hour library. At first, it felt like a blessing. A place where I could exist in the quiet, untouched by the world. I started going every night—10 PM to 2 AM. The silence, the dim lights, the endless rows of books—it all felt perfect. But then, I noticed something odd. The library closed every Thursday and Friday. No explanation. No signs. Just locked doors, as if something needed to be hidden on those nights. And then, there was her. She arrived at exactly 2 AM every Sunday. Never a minute before, never a minute after. She never spoke, never glanced around. Just walked straight to a particular bookshelf, took the same book, scribbled something inside, and left. I shouldn’t have cared. I should’ve minded my own business. But curiosity is a dangerous thing. Last Sunday, I waited. The moment she left, I approached the shelf, pulling out the book. It seemed ordinary—until I noticed the red ink. Certain words, circled. Others, rewritten in the margins. As if she wanted someone to read them. So, I did. And when I connected the words, the message revealed itself: "They are watching. Do not trust what you see. Leave before it's too late. Read 2A-9V book." A shiver ran down my spine. Then, the clock struck 2 AM. I turned toward the entrance, expecting her to walk in again. But no one came. The library was too silent now. And when I turned back to the bookshelf— The book was gone. ---