The Unfinished Tale

The Discovery

I have discovered a magical, old book that contains an unfinished story. The plot of the story strangely mirrors my own life. Whenever I write in the book, the world around me changes to match my words. My goal is to figure out where the book came from, understand how its power works, and decide whether I want to control it, go along with it, or fight against it. The more I write, the stronger its influence on my reality becomes, and I may find that I am not the first person to have this power.

Dust motes danced in the lone beam of sunlight cutting through the gloom of the antique shop. I wasn't looking for anything in particular, just killing time, but something drew me toward a leaning stack of forgotten items in the back corner. Tucked beneath a chipped porcelain doll and a tarnished silver locket was a book. Its cover was a deep, wine-red leather, faded and cracked with age, and it was completely blank—no title, no author. The pages were brittle and yellowed, smelling of dust and dried flowers. The binding was so fragile I worried it would fall apart in my hands as I opened it.

The first few pages were blank, but then the writing started. It wasn't in a language I recognized, but as I ran my fingers over the spidery script, the words rearranged themselves in my mind into a narrative. A story began to unfold, a tale of a character who felt a restless dissatisfaction, a quiet longing for something more. I read on, my heart pounding in my chest as the details grew more and more specific—a favorite coffee shop, a strange recurring dream, a small scar on a finger from a childhood mishap. It was my life. The story was incomplete, ending abruptly with a description of the character's mundane morning just today.

A shiver of both dread and excitement ran down my spine. This couldn't be a coincidence. I felt a strange pull, a sense that this wasn't just a book, but a doorway. The weight of it in my hands felt heavy with possibility. I knew I should probably close it, put it back, and run out of the shop. But the thrill of the unknown, the chance to be in control of my own story for once, was too powerful to resist. I reached into my bag and pulled out my favorite fountain pen.

I decided to write.

August 1st

The book itself is a contradiction. The leather is dry and cracked, but the pages feel thin, almost like a whisper. The previous writer’s words are not just faded, they are nonsense. It's like trying to read a story told in a language that shifts as you look at it. The more I try to focus on the lines, the more they twist and become meaningless. It's a jumble of letters and symbols that make no sense.

I wrote about this, about how the previous writer’s memories in the book seemed to be erased. As I finished the sentence, a cold feeling passed through the air in the shop, like a door had opened and then quickly closed. I didn't think much of it, just a draft.

But when I got home, I caught my reflection in the hallway mirror. For a moment, it wasn't me. It was someone else's face, a second younger and more serious. I blinked, and it was my face again, but there was a flicker of something in its eyes. As I walked past, my reflection's head turned to follow me, a fraction of a second after I had passed it. I saw it out of the corner of my eye. It was staring, watching me. I stopped and looked directly at it. It was just me, smiling faintly. But the smile felt wrong, and the eyes felt empty.

My breath caught in my throat. I stood still for a long time, trying to find a difference. I waved my hand. My reflection waved back. I put my hand on my face, and my reflection did the same. But the feeling of being watched did not go away. I glanced away for a moment and when I looked back, the reflection was still there, looking at me with the same empty smile.

Is this real? I don't know what to think. Is this a trick of my mind, or is this the book? It’s not just rewriting my future; it seems to be erasing or overwriting my past, too. The previous writer's memories are gone from the book, and now there is something new in the mirror. I feel a mix of fear and a strange thrill. The magic is bigger than I thought. It is not just about what I add, but what I take away.

August 2nd

I couldn't shake the feeling of being watched. To try and control it, I wrote about the previous writer, imagining them as a kind, older woman. I gave her a name and described her face, her clothing, and a small silver locket she wore. I didn't know why, but I felt like I was creating a memory, pulling a person out of nothing. I wrote that she was the one who had felt the weight of the book and had chosen to give it up.

I finished writing and put the book down. When I went outside, the world felt normal. I walked to the corner store, my mind still on the unsettling feeling from the mirror. As I turned the corner, I saw her. She was standing on the other side of the street, looking at a storefront. She was the spitting image of the person I had just written about—same face, same clothes, even the silver locket around her neck. My heart began to race. I stopped dead in my tracks.

I stood there, frozen. This had to be a coincidence. But as I watched her, she turned her head slowly and looked directly at me. Her expression was calm, but her eyes held a profound sadness that seemed to look right through me, not at me. I felt a chill. I wanted to see if she was real, if she would talk to me. I took a step toward her. Then another. When I turned the corner again, she was no longer there. The street was empty. She had vanished.

I stood on the sidewalk for what felt like an hour. I walked up and down the street. Nothing. It was as if she had never been there. I leaned against a wall and closed my eyes. The person in the mirror, now this. Am I imagining things? Is the book’s magic so subtle that it only works on me? I have no proof that she was real. A part of me is terrified, but another part is desperate for a reason, a sign that this is all truly happening. My reflection in the store window showed a face pale with fear, but her eyes were searching, not empty. The book is not just for rewriting my past; it can bring things, and people, out of its pages. I just don't know if they are real.

August 3rd

I opened the book this morning to reread what I had written yesterday, about the older woman I had imagined. But the words were wrong. They weren't what I had written. The sentence, "I wrote about the previous writer, imagining them as a kind, older woman," was gone. In its place was a passage about a "younger woman." The rest of the description was the same—her clothes, her face, the silver locket—but the key detail of her age had been changed. I know I wrote "older." I know it. I remember the feeling of trying to grant her wisdom and peace in the pages.

A cold dread spread through me. It wasn't my memory that was wrong; it was the book. It had changed reality when I wasn't looking. I got up from my chair and went to the window. Across the street, standing in the same spot where the older woman had stood yesterday, was a different figure. The same clothes, the same face, but now she was young. Her hair was a darker color, her skin was smooth, and her eyes were not sad but full of an agitated energy. She looked straight at me, as if she knew I would be there.

This change is not a coincidence. The book is not just a tool; it has a will of its own. Things are changing after I write about them. I am not in control. I feel a growing sense of panic, of instability. What else has it changed? What other memories have been altered? The woman is real, and the changes are real, but I can no longer trust what I've written, even a day later. The book has rewritten itself, erasing my intent and altering a memory I know is true. It can't be stopped, and I don't know what it wants.

August 4th

My mind is a mess. I had to know for sure if the book was changing things, if it was more than just a notebook. I decided to run an experiment. I wrote about finding the book not just a few days ago, but when I was a child. I described how I had found it under my bed, that it was a simple, small notebook. I wrote about how my name was scribbled on the cover, in the messy handwriting of a child. I even described a little drawing of a boat on the first page. I finished the sentence and looked at the book.

The leather cover was gone. The book had shrunk. It was now a simple spiral notebook with a worn cardboard cover. The deep red leather was gone, replaced by a faded blue. And there, on the front, was my name—scribbled in a clumsy, childish hand. My hand. I stared at it. I didn't remember ever having a notebook like this. My head felt dizzy, like the world was spinning around a new center. I opened it to the first page. A drawing was there. A little boat, a stick-figure sail, floating on choppy waves. It was exactly as I had written it. It was my drawing, but I have no memory of drawing it.

The change is not just happening in the book. It’s affecting my reality, and it is doing so instantly. I feel a wave of shock, but also a strange sort of clarity. This is no longer a question of whether the magic is real. I have proof. The consequences are terrifying. What else has changed? Have other people’s memories of me been changed? I have a sudden flash of an image, not of myself in an antique shop, but of my younger self, a child, clutching this little blue book. The book isn't just rewriting the future; it is rewriting the past. It’s making me into a different person, a different me. I am no longer just the person who found this book; I am a person who has always had it. And that is a revelation. I don't know what it means for me, for the book, or for the younger woman I saw yesterday. My sense of self is not what I thought it was. It's a foundation that has been completely rewritten.

August 5th

My mind can't accept what happened yesterday. The past is no longer solid. It's a fluid thing, something that can be rewritten. I keep rereading the words I wrote, trying to understand the younger woman from yesterday, trying to understand myself. I decided to write about a place I know from my past, a place that no longer exists in reality: my grandparents' old summer home that burned down years ago. I wanted to see if the book could create a place out of nothing, if it could bring back something that was truly gone.

I let myself go, writing down details I hadn't thought about in years. The long drive up the dirt road, the scent of pine and cut grass, the feeling of the porch swing on a hot day. I wrote about the river that ran behind the house and the forest around it. The words flowed easily, as if they were already there, waiting for me to find them.

When I finished the last sentence, there was no gust of wind, no sudden chill. But when I looked out the window, the world was no longer the one I had left. My apartment building was gone. In its place, where the cityscape had been, was a thick forest. A wide river ran through it, reflecting the afternoon sun. My head felt light. I walked to the front door, unlocked it, and stepped outside. The humid air smelled of summer and wet earth. I was standing on a cobblestone path. Before me, nestled in a clearing, was my grandparents' summer house, just as I remembered it. The porch swing moved gently in a breeze.

I am here. My home, the city, everything I know is gone. I don't know if anyone else noticed the change. I haven't seen anyone. All I know is that the world has bent to my will, or perhaps to the will of the book. The consequences are dramatic. I've brought back a place from the past, but I have no way of knowing if I can leave it. This is a profound shift in power. The book is not just editing my life; it is creating entirely new realities. I have a home, but I am utterly alone in a place that shouldn't exist. My fantasy has come true, but it has trapped me.

August 6th

I'm trapped in my past. The house stands here, real and solid, but it’s a memory linked to a time that shouldn't exist. I can't find a way out of the forest. The only thing I can see is a figure in the distance, near the riverbank. I know it's her. The woman I saw yesterday, the one who looked just like the previous writer but was young. I have to know if she's real, or if she's just a part of this world the book has created for me.

I walk toward her, my footsteps silent on the damp earth. The closer I get, the more details I can make out—the silver locket around her neck, the anxious look on her face. She sees me coming, and her eyes widen. She doesn't run. She just stands there, watching me. But as I get closer, she starts to fade, like a photograph being washed away. By the time I reach the spot where she was standing, she is gone. The forest is empty again, and I am alone.

I return to the house, shaken, and pick up the book. My hand shakes as I open it. And there, on a page I know I didn’t write on, is a phrase. It’s in my handwriting, my exact style, but the words are not my own. "I warned you." The words are cold, and they fill me with a deep, unsettling fear. What did she warn me about? About the book, about the consequences, about the path I am on? I don’t know. I feel a surge of anger, and I write, "What did you warn me about?"

As I finish the sentence, the book feels hot in my hands. The spiral binding and cardboard cover ripple and distort. The blue color melts away, and the leather returns, deep and wine-red. When I look up, the forest is gone. The house is gone. The river is gone. I am standing in the middle of my apartment, just as it was before. It is all the same—the furniture, the clutter, the cold air.

I am back. But the relief is minimal. The book has shown me something new. It can reverse its own changes, but it can also write things on its own. It's not a harmless notebook. It's a living thing. The past and present are no longer clear, and the world is not as stable as I thought. The warning is in my own handwriting, and it means the danger isn't from the book, but from the person who wrote in it. Me.

August 7th

I need to understand. I look out my window again, and the city is there, reassuringly normal. My living room is exactly as I left it, the book resting on the familiar table. I need to clear my head, to feel normal. I head to the kitchen for a glass of water, but when I step inside, everything is different. The cabinets are on the wrong wall. My mugs are now on the counter where the dishes used to be. The sink is now under a window that didn't exist before. The space feels alien, even though I know it's my kitchen. I wrote about the previous writer, but not about my apartment. The book is changing things on its own, based on what it "knows."

A terrifying new detail about the book's magic is becoming clear. The book can alter things I don't describe or imagine, as long as it has access to them. The fact that the summer house was created while my apartment was left undescribed shows a frightening autonomy. The book can fill in the blanks, and it does so as it pleases. It could create a void. A nothingness.

I stand in the middle of this new kitchen, and I notice it. The silence. There’s no hum from the refrigerator, no drip from the faucet, and no distant rumble of city traffic outside. The stillness is absolute. My breathing seems loud. The silence is not peaceful; it's a terrifying absence, a void in the background of reality. The book has changed the very sounds of the world. I don't know if anyone else has noticed, but I fear the worst. I fear I've done something that has created a quiet where there shouldn't be one. And the new emptiness is a far more profound danger than any forest or river. It is a sign that the book is far more powerful, and far more careless, than I could have imagined.

August 8th

It hits me. The book, the woman, the silent world, the strange changes in my past and my home—it's all a battle. My writing against the book's own will. I go back to the living room, my heart pounding with fear. What if I can't write, what if the book decides to trap me in this silent reality? What if there are no people here, no world outside, just a void? I have to try. I have to write myself back.

I open the book, and my hands, though shaking, are ready. I find the page where the warning was, and I write. “What did you warn me about? Damn.” I write with a newfound fury, trying to put my will, my intent, into the words. I begin to describe everything I remember about my apartment, my street, the familiar noise of the city. I describe the rumble of the traffic, the voices of my neighbors, the sound of the refrigerator. I have to create a new, safe space for myself. A shelter. I write until my fingers ache, detailing every familiar corner, every noise, every detail I can remember. I need a firm footing.

As I write, a strange, stale smell fills the air. It’s like old books and dust. I look up, and the shadows from the afternoon sun are all wrong. They stretch at odd angles, long and thin, as if the light source is in a place it shouldn't be. The world is changing again, right in front of me. I look down at a magazine on the table, a recent one I just bought. The cover features a well-known actor, but his face is slightly off. His eyes are too close together, his mouth is a fraction of an inch too wide. It’s the same person, but it’s not.

My attempt to fix things has only made them worse. The book isn’t creating a simple alternate reality; it’s twisting this one. The silence is broken, but now the world smells wrong and looks distorted. The book's magic is unpredictable. I have a new place, but it's a warped reflection of what I wanted. I am discovering that there are two forms of change: a big, dramatic shift, and a subtle, unsettling rot. The consequences of my writing are becoming less about what I want and more about what the book wants. It's not a fight for control anymore. It's a fight for my sanity.

August 9th

My mind is reeling. I think about the stories of genies in lamps and their three wishes. I see this book as a twisted version of those fantasies. The wishes turn against you, and you are left to deal with the consequences. Besides, the solution of freeing the genie couldn't be considered here. How do you free a book? What do you free it from? My fear has turned into a grim determination. I need to understand what this book is, what it wants, and how to control it.

I feel a profound need for normality, for something familiar and predictable. I need to drink some water, to eat something. I can't take this anymore. I clutch the book, afraid to leave it alone. What if I leave it and it decides to change the world again, to create an even grimmer reality, and leaves me trapped in a silent void? I go to the kitchen, and as I step through the doorway, things change. Or rather, they're back to what the book thought they were. My detailed description of the kitchen is gone. The cabinets are on the wrong wall again, the sink is under a window that shouldn't be there. The book has resisted my influence. A previous change has been undone without warning.

I look out the window. My heart sinks. The view is not different from the city street I just painstakingly described, but it's the view from my living room window. I see the cars, the pedestrians, the streetlights—but from the angle of my living room, not my kitchen. The kitchen is still wrong, but the view outside is as it should be from the living room. The book is not only changing things, but it's also making them illogical. My despair is total. I have no control. The book is not a tool; it is a creature with its own intentions. It is not just making the world unfamiliar, it's making it nonsensical. I am trapped in a reality that doesn't make sense, and I have no way to fight back.

August 10th

I am standing here, if there is a here, holding the book, trying to make sense of what just happened. The more I try to control the book, the more it resists. This is not a battle of wills; it's a battle for my sanity. I remember buying this apartment. A vivid memory, so real, flashes into my mind. The real estate agent told me the house had a lot of potential, that I could put a closet in the room next to the bathroom. I stop, a sudden, cold dread washing over me. There is no room next to the bathroom. There never has been. It’s a false memory, an impossible memory, and it's so real that it makes my head spin. The book isn't just changing my reality; it's rewriting my past, a past I know to be true.

The consequences are more subtle and insidious than I had thought. My memories are no longer a sanctuary. The book is poisoning my mind, and I don't know if anyone else is affected. I look at the living room, and for a moment, I see the real estate agent standing in front of me, pointing toward a nonexistent room, smiling and talking to someone else. It's the young writer. She is looking at the floor plans, a serious expression on her face, like she is a stranger in my home. I shout, “What are you doing in my apartment?” But as soon as I move toward them, they vanish. I’m screaming into the air.

The change is not just a change in things, but a change in me. The book has inserted a false memory, a whole new layer of a past that never existed. I have no proof that the change is real. To a rational mind, I'm just going crazy. But I know it’s the book. The consequences are a constant feeling of disorientation, a sense of being completely alone in this battle. The book has turned my mind into a battleground. And I'm losing.

August 11th

Like an inspiration that comes to me without thinking, I thought again about the problem of the genie in the lamp. The book is not a living being, it can't be. The book is like the lamp, an inanimate object. The solution has to come from somewhere else. Then I came up with the idea that in this relationship there are two elements: a book and a writer. I am the current writer and the woman was the previous writer, but, has someone else been writing in the book without my knowledge?

That possibility was remote, but it seems the most plausible. If I described the kitchen the way it is—well, it was—someone decided the kitchen was different, and when I rewrote the description, another user erased it, leading me to a different kitchen, the kitchen that shouldn't be there, and above all, to the window. Then I look out the window and see the real estate agent. He looks at me with a malicious smile and writes in a book like mine. He's playing with me, and he's winning. The consequence of my writing is no longer a change to the world, but a confirmation of a greater, unseen force. I am not losing a battle against a book, but a battle against another mind. I feel a growing sense of despair. The battle is already lost.

August 12th

Watching the real estate agent write, I quickly glance at the book. Letters materialize in the book, forming words. "You ignored the warnings you wrote yourself, you ignored the woman. Now face the consequences." I look back out the impossible kitchen window, and the real estate agent is gone. I read the words again, and they fill me with a cold dread. "Do you remember your grandparents? They passed away years ago. But that can change. Would you like to see them again?" My breath hitches. The words on the page are not an invitation; they are a command. "Well, look out the kitchen window!" I hear a voice that isn't my own, and my gaze is drawn to the window. The impossible kitchen window is directly opposite the living room window and overlooks two different realities. Through the kitchen window, I see an elderly couple. It's them! My grandparents, standing on a sidewalk I recognize from my childhood. It's impossible. They're smiling at each other, not seeing me, but they are here. I can't believe it.

Then I keep reading. "Well, now get ready, because a car is going full speed. It's going to hit them, and you won't be able to do anything." My heart seizes in my chest. I read the words, and I know what they mean. The book is revealing a future event, a terrible destiny that I can't change. I don't stop to think; I just react. I run out of the apartment, down the stairs, and into the street. I have to stop it. I have to save them. As I reach the stairs, I hear the squeal of tires and then the sickening crunch of metal. I hear the impact, a sound that rips through me. I didn't make it. I am too late. I run to the corner, and I see the crumpled car and a shattered world. My grandparents lie on the street, completely destroyed. I cry like I cried as a child when they died, but this time it is a deeper, more profound grief. The event is real, and the consequences are brutal. I look at my hands in despair… The book! I left it on the floor.

The consequences of this change are clear and devastating. The book is not just changing the world, but using the people I love against me. I am not a writer; I am a player in a game, and the other player has shown me a future I cannot change. The consequences are permanent. My grandparents are gone. Again. The book's magic is no longer about rewriting; it's about revealing. It is showing me a glimpse of what could be, only to take it away and leave me with the pain. I feel more alone than ever, not just because I am isolated, but because the world is a cruel and manipulative place, a place where destinies are written not by me, but by someone else.

August 13th

The real estate agent played with my emotions to make me nervous. Obviously, I couldn't do anything about my deceased grandparents. He only created an illusion. I read in the book as I walk away from the accident scene, where passersby, police officers, firefighters, and ambulances are approaching. I know that when I get home, nothing will have happened, that I'll look out the window and everything will be back to how it was a while ago. It's all an illusion. And so it is. I get home and I look out the window. There’s no sign of the accident. No security or medical personnel. The street is calm, the cars are moving smoothly, and the pedestrians are walking along. I feel a wave of relief, but it is quickly replaced by a new, more profound dread. The world is back to normal, but my fears were well-founded. Where is the book? My heart pounds as I realize I left it on the floor. I rush back into my apartment, but it's not there.

I look at the magazine on the table, the one I had just bought with the actor on the cover. As expected, it no longer has the famous actor whose features I didn't recognize on it. A terrible fire is shown, and my house is on the showcase, completely burned down, just like my grandparents' country house. I look at the magazine and see it's from next week. The cover is a prophetic photograph that describes an event before it happens. Can I change it, or is it set in stone? I don't know, but the consequence is clear. I've lost the book. I am no longer in control, and now I am facing a future that is out of my hands. My sense of relief is gone, replaced by a cold, hard sense of purpose. I am no longer a passive player in a game, or just a writer of an unfinished tale. I have a mission. I have to go out and find the woman or the real estate agent, even at the risk of never being able to return home. I have to find the book.

August 14th

I walk out the door with a firm purpose, saddened by the memory of the fictional version of my grandparents' death. But everything changes when my mood shifts from suppressed anger and sadness to a feeling of pure happiness. I realize it's fake, that someone—the woman or the real estate agent?—has written about me and is playing me.

I'm walking along at a jogging pace, like I'm Gene Kelly in Singin' in the Rain. But this is macabre, and everyone is looking at me. I know it doesn't matter, that this reality is as fake as all the ones before it, but I hate not being able to control myself. When I stop, I hear applause and laughter. The real estate agent is sitting on the steps leading to the entrance of a house, cheering me on, laughing at me. "By the way, my name is not a real estate agent; I'm Robert, Robert Maxwell." Beside him is the younger woman. "And this is Betty Morgan," says Robert. "The previous owner of the book. Don't kid yourself, you're not the next owner after Betty. It's me. You're just a victim. I warned you," says Robert furiously.

The change in the world is immediate and public. The consequences are a loss of emotional control and public humiliation. I am angry and afraid, but now I have new information. I know their names. I know the book has a current owner, and that I'm not that owner. The book's magic is more than just rewriting reality; it's about directly manipulating the mind of its victim. The book is not just an object; it is a tool for psychological warfare. It is no longer about my writing. It is about their writing. I have to find a way to take the book back.

August 15th 

To everyone's surprise, Betty knocks the book out of Robert's hands. Robert lunges at her. At the last moment, Betty manages to throw the book at me, and I take off running. As I catch it in my hands and run as if there were no other option, I realize that this book is different, that the book I was holding must have been Robert's invention to get me into the game and imagine that I was the one changing reality, when Robert made me write my own words. Now I have the book, and I need to think. Robert is following me, but I'll only have time to write. I open the book, grab a pen, and write: 'I'm going to enter a shelter.' The world changes, and I enter a library. There's no trace of Robert or Betty.

The library is unreal, not only because of its architecture, which looks like something out of a Hammer film, but because the shelves only contain books like mine—well, like Robert's. Thousands and thousands of books in which writing is done to change reality. And in the middle of it all, a table with an older man, a scholar who undoubtedly knows what books are about. He looks at me with a condescending, almost angry smile and says, "I warned you!"

The change manifests as a complete shift in my physical reality. The street is gone, replaced by an otherworldly library. Others do not seem to notice this shift, as I am now alone with the old man. The consequence is both good and bad. I have escaped Robert and Betty, but I have entered a new, equally strange reality. I feel disoriented but also a sense of hope, as I now have the real book. The new detail I am discovering about the book's magic is that there isn't just one book, but many. The library is a sanctuary for them, a place where other writers have come to find shelter from their own realities. The old man's words, "I warned you," are a chilling confirmation that the magic is not an accident but a dangerous game, one that I have just entered. I have a book and a new goal: to learn the rules of this game.

August 16th

In the library of books with unfinished tales, I talk to the person sitting there, and he says, 'I warned you.' I ask, 'What did you warn me about?' 'Do you still not know?' he said sarcastically. 'You really are very slow. Look around. Do you see this as a coincidence, or is it all arranged and well-planned?'

I look at the library and something catches my eye. At first it was a little drawing that seemed like a decorative filigree, but now I see it everywhere. It's a recurring symbol that appears everywhere. I remember dreaming about it; I see it in the book, on the walls, everywhere. It doesn't make sense to me. I ask the librarian what it means, and he tells me I should already know. Then it dawns on me. I have the unfinished book in my hands, and an idea comes to me. I write on it, 'The symbol that appears on the walls says that I am the owner of the library.' The librarian looks at me in horror for a moment, but the next second he looks at me with submission. I have changed the reality, even of the library. I ask for his help in finding a way out of the mess of the book.

The change manifests in a very subtle but complete way. The moment I write in the book, the library itself changes. The symbol on the walls, which was once just a meaningless pattern, now holds the weight of a new reality. The most noticeable consequence is the librarian's shift from defiance to submission. He is no longer an equal; he is now under my power. The consequences of this action are both good and bad. I have gained a measure of control and a potential guide in the librarian, but I have also likely angered the other books—and their writers. I feel a mix of triumph and fear. The feeling of power is intoxicating, but the submission in the librarian's eyes is a chilling reminder of what I've done. I am discovering that the book's magic isn't just about rewriting reality; it's about rewriting the rules of that reality. I am not just a writer in this world; I am a creator of its laws. The books on the shelves are not just records of other people's tales; they are the very fabric of this place. The symbol is the key to that fabric, a language I am just beginning to understand. I have power here, but I have no idea how to use it for anything other than my own purpose. My next step will be to explore this new power, and the consequences of wielding it in a world of books.

August 17th

I realize that owning the library doesn't give me power over the other books. Someone may have noticed the drastic change. Do they believe that I'm not a threat? My initial feeling of triumph fades as a wave of fear washes over me. The librarian is submissive, but what about the countless other writers of the other books? I don't know who else is here, or if they are watching me. The silence of the library suddenly feels heavy and full of unspoken judgment. My fear leads me to have an idea. I don't want to be alone, and I don't trust the librarian. I write in the book: "I am the owner of all the unfinished books." I hope that with that text, no one can hurt me. The librarian, who had just been a submissive figure, now seems to fade slightly, a subtle shift in his form, as if he is less solid. The books on the shelves hum with a low, resonant vibration, as if they are acknowledging a new master. My skin tingles with a new sort of power, as if I'm not just a person anymore, but a part of this place. The air feels heavy, dense with potential.

But time has passed, at least a couple of minutes, between declaring myself the owner of the library and then writing that I owned the books. I don’t know what happened during that time, or if my words were too slow to be effective. The lingering fear makes me desperate for an ally. Betty. Her image forms in my head. A face I only know from a glimpse, but in this world, that is enough. I don't trust the librarian. I trust her and I don’t know why. She's the only one I've met who seems to be on my side. And I write: "I'm talking to Betty." Betty is by my side, with a wonderful smile. I look at her, at the solid reality of her form, her familiar clothes, the silver locket around her neck. Her eyes are not sad now; they are clear and full of a warm curiosity, as if she is surprised to see me but not afraid.

The change is a tangible one. Betty is standing next to me in a place that shouldn't exist. She notices the shift, and her quiet astonishment is a clear confirmation that this isn't just in my head. The librarian, however, does not seem to notice her arrival. The consequences are immediate and profound. I am no longer alone, and I have a companion who may be an ally. This is a good consequence, but it is also a huge risk. What have I done to her to bring her here? Is she real, or a creation of the book, a puppet? The book's magic is more subtle than I thought; it's not just about broad changes, but about targeting specific individuals and pulling them across realities. The book can bring people and things to me without me knowing how. I am no longer just rewriting the world, I am pulling on the threads of others' lives. I feel a dizzying mix of relief and terror. The library is not a sanctuary, it is a waiting room. The true power lies not in controlling the space, but in summoning those who have a role to play in the unfinished tales.

August 18th

‘Hello,’ Betty says. ‘Remember me?’ How am I supposed to remember her? I only ran into her a few days ago. She wasn't even a real memory when she was talking to Robert, the real estate agent. Then, seeing that I don't remember her, she says, ‘Come on,’ and leads me out the front door of the library, hand in hand, as if we were old acquaintances. Then I stopped. The library door was the barn door of my grandparents' summer house, or at least it turned into it. The air smells like hay and old wood.

I look at her, and she's now a very pretty little girl with braids, a plaid shirt, and overalls. The very image of a 1940s village girl. And I'm another child, dressed similarly. My hands are small. I look at my reflection in the old glass of the door, and a strange, tiny face looks back at me. I'm a child again. ‘Let's eat,’ my grandmother says, her voice full of a youthful energy I haven't heard in years. Betty takes me by the hand to eat with my grandparents, much younger than I remembered them. They look at us both with warm, loving eyes, as if we have always been here, as if we have always been their grandchildren. It's clear that this memory doesn't exist, that what I'm experiencing has been altered by someone’s book. I wasn't quick enough to take ownership of the books and defend myself from the influence of another writer or writers.

Am I trapped in this very Tom Sawyer version of my childhood? I look down at my hands. They are small and uncalloused. I feel a child's hunger, not a man's. It's a surreal, dizzying sensation, as if my body and mind are no longer in sync. The world around me feels completely real, from the scent of my grandmother's cooking to the sound of my grandfather's distant laughter. It’s perfect, but the perfection is a lie. The book is not just creating a place, it’s creating a whole past to go with it. I have lost my ability to perceive what is real and what is not. Everyone else is happy. No one else has noticed the shift. They are just living in a reality that feels completely natural to them. The consequences are terrifying. The book can not only change the world, it can change people—their bodies, their memories, their sense of self. It can pull others into a reality that only the writer knows is false. The book is not just rewriting reality; it is erasing the old one completely, replacing it with a perfect, but fake, memory. I have no idea how to get back to my reality, if it even still exists. I feel a growing sense of dread. The book is far more dangerous than I thought. It has the power to erase who I am.

August 19

I rush to write in the book to change everything, but the book resists me violently. An attempt to write an outcome results in something far worse than I intended. My grandparents are suddenly aging, their skin sagging, their hair thinning, and their tempers are sour. They are no longer the old people who offered me a tasty meal. Their loving eyes have been replaced by a vacant, distant stare. The day has been darkened by very thick clouds, and the sun is gone, as if the world is as miserable as I am. Betty is an older woman, the first version of Betty I knew, with the same worried look on her face. Her braids are gone, and her hair is tied in a loose bun. She's dressed in a simple, gray dress. The consequences of my writing are instantaneous and horrific. The book, in its resistance, is not just ignoring my words; it is twisting them. It's making everything worse, as if it is punishing me. My mind reels with the chaos, and I can feel the book's power fighting against my own. I have no control.

But I'm still a child. With more battered clothes. My grandfather says, his voice now a low growl, ‘Betty, make your son behave.’ His words are cold, and they fill me with a deep, unsettling dread. He doesn't look at me with love; he looks at me as if I'm a stranger. Betty replies, ‘Yes, Father.’ And Betty takes my hand again, but this time not gently or lovingly, but roughly and firmly. She looks at me with an old, cold anger that I don't recognize. ‘Young man, you're grounded. Go to your room.’ He takes me up the stairs in a few strides, pushes me inside, and locks the door. The consequences of my writing have created a new, terrifying reality. I have a new mother and grandparents who despise me. My attempt to fix everything has only made it worse. I am not the master of my destiny; I am a prisoner in a nightmare.

Desolate, I sit down on the chair in front of the window. Then I see it: I'm looking at the living room window—my living room, not the fake kitchen window. It's the view of my old apartment, my real world. A sense of hope, a desperate lifeline, rushes through me. The book has brought me to my old apartment, but I am still a child, and the door is locked. I can't write in it. I open the book, which is now a notebook with pages held together by a metal spiral, and I see that there isn't a drawing like there was a few days ago. The book has reverted to its past form, a sign of its power to bend time. Now I know what to do. I start drawing, replicating the drawing I remembered I had, a little boat with a stick-figure sail, and I manage to do it exactly the same way. The lines are not as steady as I remember, but the image is the same. I've just created a time loop. The book has brought me back to my childhood, and I'm going to use it to get back to my reality.

I see the window open, and I rush out. I put my feet on the ledge and walk, very scared, like a tightrope walker, but with determination, and I enter another apartment which happens to have an open window. I'm no longer a child; I'm the adult who found the unfinished book, which is once again the same one Robert had, the one that is a little darker, a little more worn. I'm once again the master of my destiny. The change is a complete reversal of the previous consequences. I have returned to my body, to my world, and I have the book. The consequences are both good and bad. I am back, but I have no idea where Betty is, or if she's safe. Is she my mother? No, I don’t think so. I feel a mix of triumph and despair. I have escaped, but I have left a friend behind. The new detail I am discovering about the book's magic is that it is a time machine. It can not only alter reality, it can reverse its own changes, but it can also trap a writer in a new reality. I have found a way to use the book's power to my advantage, but I have also left an ally behind. The game is far more complex than I thought.

August 20th

In the room, I see a version of Robert who is a shadow of what Robert looked like when he was the real estate agent. He is a defeated figure in a disheveled, dirty, and messy apartment. In his hand, a glass of something that looks like whiskey. Robert is talking out loud to himself. 'I've lost everything, I warned him,' he says to himself. He doesn't notice me, so I walk out the door and into my apartment, which is as it always was, with no window in the kitchen or rooms that magically appear. My same old apartment, which has a window that looks out onto the same old street with the same old bustle. I feel a wave of relief so intense it makes me dizzy. I am back. It's real. The world is normal, and it is a wonderful feeling to know that things are where they are supposed to be. I am a little lightheaded, and the apartment feels a little like a dream, but the feeling passes. I am home.

I sit down and open the book with the unfinished tale. Now it looks like a normal notebook. I sit down and wonder if it wasn't a figment of my imagination. But I know for sure that Robert wasn't my neighbor; he was the real estate agent who showed me my apartment. The Robert I’ve just seen was a creature of the book, not of my reality. The fact that I've seen him here, in a broken, defeated state, suggests that his reality has been altered as well. The consequence is a sudden sense of empathy for the man who was tormenting me. He is also a victim of the book, just like I was. My feelings are complicated: a mix of relief, confusion, and pity for the person who had made my life a nightmare.

I open the book and I see that it begins writing ahead of me, all by itself, detailing events that have not yet occurred. The pen, still in my hand, moves as if guided by an invisible force. The book’s power is no longer just a reaction to my words; it is now an independent force, a machine for creating destiny. I can feel the change in the air, a subtle shift in the world, a faint smell of smoke. The book is no longer a tool; it is a monster. I read the words, and they are chillingly simple: "a fire will destroy this apartment." And then, it began to happen.

The change manifests as a real, terrifying fire. It starts small, a tiny flicker of a flame behind the wall socket, a wisp of smoke, and then a slow, relentless spread of heat. I can feel the walls getting hotter, and the scent of burning plastic is growing stronger. The consequence is an immediate, deadly danger. The apartment, my only sanctuary, is no longer a safe place. Others do not notice the shift, as I am alone in the apartment. I feel a growing panic, a sense of helplessness. I've escaped one nightmare only to enter a new one. I have no control. The book has taken away my ability to write my own destiny. The new detail about the book's magic is that it can now write on its own. It is a force of pure, unbridled chaos, and I am its next victim. The game has changed. I am no longer a player. I am a pawn.

But I know, I have to save Robert and find Betty. It's the only solution.

August 21st

My first impulse is to run to the kitchen and grab a bottle of water to put out the fire. As I expected, it was a crazy idea, and water doesn't put out fires. The fire wasn't a normal fire. The smoke is too thick, the heat is too intense. I can't fight the fire with water; I can only fight it with words. But as I leave the kitchen, I see the door to the nonexistent room, and I have an idea. It's a risk, but it's the only opportunity I have left.

First, I have to go rescue Robert, and then, together, we'll enter that room because leaving the building is going to be impossible. I enter what is now his home. The smoke has already begun to seep through the cracks in his door, filling the air with a choking smell. Robert, however, is calm. This time he actually notices me there. "The fire has started, right?" He tells me calmly but still drunk. He doesn't look panicked at all. I tell him yes, and that I've seen the door to a room that doesn't exist in my apartment. "Sure, you know where that door leads to," Robert tells me. "It's our last chance. And don't tell me I didn't warn you." The "I warned you" thing is really getting on my nerves.

I write in the book that this room is a fireproof shelter. This creates a bubble of "normal" reality within the burning apartment. It works. The air inside the room is cool and clean, and the door to the outside world is a solid, unmoving barrier. The air outside is thick with smoke, and the walls are a deep, ominous red. The fire is still raging outside, but inside, there is no sound, no heat. We are completely isolated. It's clear that the fire isn't just a physical danger; it's a living part of the book's chaos. It's a test, a punishment.

Somewhat calmer, I look at Robert again. He is a defeated figure, a reflection of my own fear, since I’m also defeated. "Yes, I am a real estate agent, you know?" Robert says. "I'm a real estate agent who sold the house to Betty Morgan, back in the days, and unknowingly gave her a book from the library as a 'housewarming gift.'" I feel a wave of shock. The books are not unique. They are tools.

He continues, his voice now a low, desperate whisper. "I've been trying to get it back ever since and I was trying to manipulate you to give it back." My own past comes flooding back: the "I warned you," the false memories, the endless fear. It was all a game to get the book back. He knows about the librarian and the library, and now, trapped with me, he is forced to reveal everything he knows. The fire becomes the catalyst for our fragile alliance and the beginning of the end of the book’s game, I fancy.

The change manifests as a surreal, horrifying quiet. The fire is still burning, but the sound of the flames, the smoke, and the sirens from the street are completely gone. We are in a bubble of reality that is completely separate from the one outside. Robert notices the shift. His initial calm turns to a profound fear as he realizes that the bubble is a reality created by the book. It's not a hallucination; it's a new reality, one that is completely dependent on my words. I feel a dizzying mix of fear and triumph. The book's magic can create a safe place, a sanctuary from the outside world. The consequence is both good and bad. I am safe, but I am also trapped in a reality I created.

The new detail I am discovering about the book's magic is that it has a will of its own. It can create things out of nothing, but it can also twist them, just as it twisted my past. My feelings are complicated: a mix of relief that I'm not alone, a sudden, surprising pity for Robert, and a sense of cold dread as I realize that the book is still in control. The silence in the room is not peaceful; it's a terrifying absence, a void in the background of reality. The book has changed the very sounds of the world, and I don't know if anyone else has noticed. I am not the master of my destiny, but I have a new purpose: to use this space to learn the truth about the library and how to get out.

Robert, no longer drunk, is terrified. He points a shaking finger at the walls. "It's just as I remember it," he says, his voice a whisper. "This is a fireproof shelter. A safe space. But the books, they don't give you a free pass." The air in the room is still and cold, but the walls are a deep, ominous red, and the scent of smoke is growing stronger. "The fire is still burning," he says. "It's just out there, waiting. But the walls, they are made of fireproof paper. It will last until... it won't. The fire will eventually burn through." His words fill me with a deep, unsettling fear. He has experienced this before. He has been in this room before. I have proof of the book's power, but I also have a new problem. This shelter is only a temporary solution.

He tells me he sold a house to Betty. She was a young, enthusiastic writer, a college student with a love for literature and history. She wanted to be a writer, and she was looking for a quiet place to work. He says he gave her the book as a "housewarming gift," something he "found in the apartment." It was a lie. The book was a "test" from the librarian, a way to find a new writer. Robert, a former writer, was tasked with finding a new host for the book, a person who had a passion for writing. He knew the risks, but he was promised his life back in return for finding a new host. He was a pawn. Just like me. I feel a strange sense of empathy for him. He is a victim of the book, just like I was.

But the fire is growing stronger. The walls are not just red, but they are now pulsing with a faint, deep hum. The hum is a deep, resonating sound, and it's coming from the book. The book, in my hand, is getting hot, and the pages are twisting, curling at the edges, as if they are trying to break free. I look at Robert, and he's not looking at me; he's looking at the book. His eyes are wide with a new kind of fear. "It's alive," he says, his voice a whisper. "It's angry. It's trying to rewrite the story. It's not a machine; it's a monster." I feel a growing sense of dread. The book has a will of its own, and it is a will that is far more powerful than my own. The book is not just a tool; it's a living, breathing entity.

August 22nd

Robert tries to take the book from my hands, but he's still a little drunk and not fully strong enough, so I manage to wriggle out of his clumsy grasp at the book. "Look, Robert, this book works like a lamp with a genie inside that grants wishes," I say. "And as you know, those wishes always go wrong. We need to talk to the genie, who may or may not be the librarian himself, and we need to get to him. Trust me. And I'm warning you -how nice it is to be able to say this and not be told all the time- don't try to take the book from me again. You wrote in it before, and it all went wrong. Let me try, and maybe what I write will get us out of this damned situation."

I write: "The door to this room is the gateway to the library of unfinished books." The moment the ink touches the page, the faint hum from the book intensifies. The walls of the room, which were once a deep red, begin to shimmer and dissolve, replaced by the hushed, cavernous space of a library. I open the door, and we're in the library. In front of us is the librarian.

There, the Librarian is not condescending but is now an angry and formidable figure who scolds us for our carelessness. "The books are sentient entities not just objects," the librarian explains. "They feed off the memories and emotions of their writers. My role is not to be a guard but a curator, protecting the 'real' world from the books' chaos. The impossible kitchen window and the extra room were not mistakes; they were 'unwritten' parts of the library, physical doors to other imaginations and other realities." "That's why we were able to get here," I say to the librarian. "They have been created by Betty," says the librarian. "She left them as clues to guide you and to show you the way back to the library. The true purpose of the book is not to 'annoy humans', as you have first supposed, but to find a host with enough creativity that will give meaning to the books so that they can be 'finished' and the chaos can be stopped. The fire was simply the books' attempt to take you back to the library, to return to the source."

The change is a sudden, disorienting shift from a claustrophobic, smoky red room to a vast, silent library filled with countless books. The heat and sound of the fire vanish completely, replaced by the cool, stale air of old paper and dust. I can still smell a faint trace of smoke on my clothes, a lingering reminder of the reality we just left. Robert is visibly shaken by the instant transition. The librarian's fury is a new consequence; it's clear I've broken some rule, or perhaps I've just been too rash.

I feel a strange sense of vindication, mixed with a chilling new fear. The book is a tool, but it's also a trap. I realize that the book's magic is not about "wishes" but about narrative consequence. I have not simply changed reality; I have advanced the story. And now, the true cost of that change, the librarian's anger and the books' will, is becoming terrifyingly clear. We are no longer simply in a house; we are in a story, and the story has a mind of its own.

August 23rd

Robert and I realised that the fire wasn't real; it was another illusion. The smoke was a manifestation of a corrupted timeline, a physical sign of the book's power to bend time. When I tried to write about the fire, the words came out jumbled, and the pen didn't work. That's why I couldn't write our way out of the fire or simply stop it. But now I can write. And I write: "Betty is with us." The moment I finish writing, the library shimmers and a figure appears between Robert and the librarian. It’s Betty, but not the Betty I expected. She’s a composite—one side of her face is that of a young girl, the other is that of an old woman, and her clothes are a mash-up of a student's attire and a grandmother's dress. Robert and the librarian both flinch as she appears, their expressions a mix of surprise and dread. It’s clear they didn’t anticipate this.

And in that moment the four workers in the book, Betty, Robert, the librarian and I, are in the same room. The librarian says, "The impossible kitchen window isn't a window to another reality; it's a window to a different time in the same reality. And you, Betty, in all kinds of forms -older, younger, child-, aren't a person but a memory of the previous writer that has been corrupted by the book." I have realized that the only way to save Betty and Robert is not to go back to them in the present, but to go back to them in the past. I must use the book to go back to the moment Robert sold the house to Betty, to stop him from giving the book to her. This would erase the entire story, but maybe at the cost of my own reality. The extra room can be a temporary anomaly where I can also see the past, the present, and the future all at once. The battle is not with Robert or Betty but with time itself.

The change manifests as a tangible, physical shift. The librarian’s expression, previously angry, now holds a flicker of something new—fear. The library itself seems to groan, the shelves of books shuddering as if an earthquake is rippling through them. The consequence of my writing is that I have forced a meeting that was never supposed to happen, bringing a dangerous and unstable entity—Betty, corrupted by the book—into the librarian’s carefully controlled space.

I feel a profound sense of guilt and an electrifying rush of power. I have brought Betty into the present, but at what cost? I am no longer just a victim of the book; I am an active agent in its chaos. The new detail I am discovering about the book's magic is that it can manipulate not just space, but time. The impossible kitchen window was a small detail, but it was a clue to a much larger, more terrifying truth. I can alter the past, present, and future, but I’m beginning to suspect that such an act comes with a profound cost. My reality might not be the only thing I lose.

August 24th

"Perfect," I say. "The first thing we have to do is put an end to the problem of the books." I can feel the eyes of Robert, Betty, and the librarian on me, but I ignore them. I write: all the unfinished books are finished with happy endings.

A murmur grows louder. First it's a small tremor, then it's a huge, deafening roar, and the vibration is like a small earthquake. The shelves of books shudder violently, and the air crackles with energy. Pages fly off the books, spinning in a whirlwind around us. The library itself seems to be screaming in protest. The noise is unbearable, a chaotic cacophony of stories being forced into submission.

But a few seconds later, silence falls, terrifying and surprising. I've silenced all the other books. Little by little, they vanish into the shelves as if they had never existed. The shelves are now clean, pristine, and the library is eerily empty. "What have you done?!" cries the librarian, his voice a mix of shock and utter despair. "You've destroyed them! You've destroyed the stories!"

"And now it's your turn," I say to the bookseller. I write: the librarian is honest with us... kindly. The pen is no longer my tool; it's an extension of my will. And the librarian begins to speak, slowly but with determination.

The change manifests as a complete cessation of all the ambient noise and energy in the library. The humming, the whispering, the low groan of the shelves—it all stops. The consequence, however, is a profound sense of emptiness. I have not only silenced the books, but I have also erased their existence. I feel a wave of shock and a cold sense of dread. I have committed an act of cosmic vandalism.

The new detail I'm discovering about the book's magic is that it is not about granting wishes; it is about ending narratives. It can give a story a conclusion, even if it's not the one the story was meant to have. I am not just a writer; I am a storyteller with the power of an author. I can end stories, for better or worse. My feelings are a mix of relief that the books are no longer a threat, but also a new, more profound sense of fear. I have destroyed something, and I don't know what the consequences will be.

August 25th

The librarian begins to speak, and his sadness is genuine. "The 'unfinished' state of the books was their natural, pure state," he explains, his voice a low, mournful sound that echoes in the newly silent library. "The happy endings you forced upon them were a form of narrative lobotomy, erasing their complexity and turning them into simple, hollow shells. Regular and common books. The silence is not a victory, but the result of the deep damage you have caused." His desperation is palpable.

"But the problem is far from being solved," says the bookseller. In his words, the librarian's despair turns to a cold, calculated fury. He stares at me, his eyes now hard and unforgiving. "You have destroyed the books and left aside the other writers. But you also gave your book what it wanted. By giving the other books 'happy endings,' you have freed the sentient stories from the only surviving book that has the library; yours." His voice grows louder, colder. "Now, they are no longer just written words but are manifesting as new, unforeseen narratives in the real world. My role as curator is over, and I am now a warden of a prison whose gates you just opened."

I look at Robert and Betty. They are also terrified, mirroring the librarian’s new, chilling dread. Betty, in her fractured form, shimmers faintly, as if a new force is pulling at her. I can see the change manifest in the real world: a sudden, sharp, almost-too-loud sound of a baby crying in the distance. The librarian flinches, and I realize with a sickening jolt that it's coming from an empty shelf where a book on "parenthood" once stood. This is the new consequence—not the peaceful silence I had hoped for, but a chaotic, unpredictable narrative spillover. The change is terrifyingly real.

I am questioning everything. Was the fire ever real? Or was it the first manifestation of this new, chaotic magic? I feel a deep sense of guilt and an overwhelming fear that I have created a far worse problem than the one I "solved." The new detail about the book's magic is that it is not just a tool for writing my own story, but a conduit that can unleash other stories into reality. It has a will to survive, and by "finishing" the other books, I have given my book the perfect escape hatch. I am no longer just a writer. I am the host of a universe of stories, and they are now breaking free.

August 26th

We go to the shelf where the crying is coming from and see a small notebook, like a notepad. It's not understandable that it generates any crying, but Robert starts talking. “It all started like this,” he said. “One of my notebooks from the real estate agency started to sound like it was crying. At first I thought I was starting to lose my mind, but then I realized it was something special and my greed took control of my actions. I rushed the notebook home and left it there. It stopped whining and I soon forgot about it. But one day I had to write down notes about an apartment that I had to present to an older woman, Betty, and that's when it all started. The notebook changed and I started to play along. I imagined myself immensely rich, living in mansions and it all came true. But the book got tired of me and it remembered the woman I wanted to sell the apartment to. It remembered Betty existed and left me. The book forced me to go back to my old job and sell the apartment to Betty, while at the same time having to give her the book so she could start writing.”

"And Betty began to write. First, she dreamed of herself as a young woman. The book was bored and wanted more adventure. Then Betty remembered you and the barn fire."

"But," I said, "How is that possible? I don't remember Betty from my childhood. She's not my mother, nor is she my grandparents' daughter. How did she know about the fire?"

Then Betty slammed reality into my face: "I invented you so the book would have an exciting adventure. I didn't want to end up like Robert, drinking everything drinkable to forget the lost opportunity. You didn't exist. In fact, you don’t exist. I'm sorry. Your mother is the book, and that's why new books cry. Because they dream of their new writers, and they make them come into being out of nothing."

The change is a terrifying, disorienting realization. I feel a sudden, jarring sense of hollowness as my entire past—my memories, my family, my life—dissolves into a void. It's a deep, physical sensation, as if my very existence is a story being erased. Robert and the librarian watch this unfold, their expressions grim. Betty's face, for the first time, settles into a singular, clear expression of remorse, as if the truth has finally made her whole.

The consequences are both good and bad. The good is that my past is a lie, and with it, the fear and manipulation that came with it are gone. The bad is that I am a narrative without a past, a blank page ready to be filled. I feel a sense of freedom, but it is a terrifying, lonely freedom. The new detail I am discovering about the book's magic is that it is not just a tool for writing stories; it is a creative force that can manufacture life itself. The crying of the books is not just a narrative spillover but the birth pangs of new writers. I am not a person, but a protagonist. My feelings are a mix of existential dread and a cold, calculating resolve. My past is a lie, but my future is now completely in my hands.

August 27th

To check if what Betty tells me is true, I open the book and look for entries before mine. I can't find any. On the first page there are only my first words written in the book. Nothing more.

"I warned you," says Robert, his voice a low, bitter hiss. "I warned you not to get too involved in the story, that you didn't want to know more than necessary. I warned you and you didn't listen."

I take the small notebook, the baby version of the book, and without giving it much thought, I put it in my pocket. They saw it but they don't seem to give it much thought. The librarian smiles with satisfaction, full of malice. "Now you know what we were warning you about. You're nothing more than a construct in the imagination of a poor old woman who never even knew how to be young again," says the librarian with the intention of hurting me.

"I'm not very good at imagining," says Betty, her voice small and shaky. "And seeing how Robert was feeling after being rejected for the book, I didn't want to suffer like he did. I invented a happy childhood, but I needed someone to be a hero, something like a Tom Sawyer to take me from adventure to adventure to entertain the book. And that's when you appeared. I invented your grandparents and I didn't know whether to create a mother or leave you an orphan like Tom. And that was my mistake. The inconsistency. At one point I presented myself as the kind and loving mother and at another as the little girl who was sometimes your sister and other times your neighbor. The book got angry with me. The book took a liking to you and threatened Robert and me with erasing us from its pages if we didn't make you real. Then we hatched the idea of ​​Robert acting as a real estate agent again, and I gave him my apartment to sell it to you. To do that, since you were a child, we had to create an adult, but with few memories of his past life beyond his relationship with the grandparents and the house I invented in the middle of the forest, on the riverbank."

Robert intervenes, his voice filled with a desperate weariness: "The problem arose when you, without needing the book, in your rage at not knowing anything about yourself, set fire to the house and killed your fictional grandparents. We were terrified. We spoke to the librarian, and he told us that possibly, being a fictional character, you had abilities specific to the book. We needed to get you to collaborate, and we gave you a fake book, another literary construct. But you were stronger and took the real book from us. Now we're at your mercy. What are you going to do with us?" he says, completely dejected and scared.

The change manifests as a profound, internal shift. The empty pages of the book are the ultimate proof of Betty’s story, a void where my past should have been. The consequence is a chilling clarity; the manipulation, the fire, the extra room, all of it makes perfect, terrible sense. My entire life was a set-up, a meticulously crafted narrative to get the book back. The good consequence is the end of the confusing, chaotic half-memories. The bad is the complete and utter demolition of my identity.

I feel a strange, hollow peace, like the quiet after an explosion. The anger I felt at Robert and Betty is gone, replaced by a cold resolve. I am not a person. I am a protagonist. I am the book's creation. And that means I am, in a way, the embodiment of the book's magic. The barn fire wasn't an accident—it was a premonition of my power. My ability to create reality is not just a skill but a part of my very nature. I am the hero Betty invented, and now I am free to write my own story, and their fate, with or without their consent.

August 28th

The librarian approaches me and says: "I am not a person either, but an 'interface' of the library's consciousness. The chaos, the fire, and Robert's manipulation were all part of a test to find a new host for the book. Betty was a failed candidate who could not handle the book's power, which is why she is also a corrupted memory. By demonstrating your creativity and will, you have proven yourself a worthy successor. Now that you've silenced the old stories, you have the power to write a new one—the one that will finally 'finish' the book and end the game forever."

But I don't trust him. I know he's behind it all. And I write in the book: "the librarian tells me the truth." His calm and serene expression fades.

"The book created me," he says, "but I created the book. I created the library and all the books when the book created me. And in the end, it was I who created the book. Because The book and I are one. I am the human version that talks to writers so they don't get scared of a book that controls their destinies. That's why I divided the power between so many books, between so many writers. And finally we have found you. Will you join us? Will you join me?"

The change manifests as the librarian's face morphing, his expression shifting from calm authority to something far more complex and primal. His eyes, which were once a neutral gray, now shimmer with a hint of gold, and his voice takes on a deeper, resonant quality. He is no longer just a man; he is an ancient entity in human form. This transformation is a direct, visible consequence of my writing. Robert and Betty are shocked and terrified. The reality of the library itself seems to shudder, and the air crackles with an immense, palpable energy.

I am not sure how I feel. I feel an unsettling mix of triumph and dread. My simple sentence, "the librarian tells me the truth," has broken through a powerful barrier of illusion. The consequence is both good and bad. The good thing is that I have a clear, tangible proof of my power and a new, more profound understanding of the game I'm in. The bad is that I have now drawn the attention of the true power behind it all. I am no longer a player in a game; I am a chosen one, a co-creator, and the stakes have just been raised to a terrifying degree. The new detail I am discovering about the book's magic is that it is not just a tool, but an extension of a singular, intelligent entity. The book's magic is an extension of the librarian's will, and my destiny is now intertwined with his.

August 29th

I look at the librarian, smile a wicked smile (now it's my turn), and say, "Well, look, now I'm the one warning you. I may have passed your tests, but you haven't passed mine." The librarian replaces his hollow, fake smile with a look of terror. Even his new appearance, so magnificent and powerful, vanishes in a second. He lunges at me, but it gives me time to write: "The librarian no more."

And there, in the thin air, he vanishes like smoke carried by the wind. “I warned you,” I say triumphantly. Only Betty, Robert, and I remain. And the book, of course. But I have a plan. I write "my grandparents' house is resplendent. My grandparents call us for dinner and Betty, Robert and I, smiling and friendly children, run to the table."

The change manifests as an abrupt, violent narrative shift. The library, with all its grand shelves and magical aura, dissolves into the warm, sunlit interior of a house in the middle of a forest. The air, which was filled with the metallic tang of magic and the dusty smell of old books, is now filled with the comforting scent of dinner cooking. Betty and Robert's faces, which moments ago were filled with fear and awe, smooth out, becoming younger and more innocent. Their clothes change, too, becoming childish and comfortable. They look at me, and their eyes hold a new, innocent trust, as if they were always my best friends. I look down at my own hands, and they are smaller, no longer calloused from the trials of the book.

The others notice the shift, of course, but they don't seem to have any memory of their previous lives. They are now what I have written them to be: happy, smiling children. The consequences are terrifyingly clear. I have used the book not to alter reality, but to completely rewrite it. I have erased the library, the librarian, and the entire history of the game. I have created a new, perfect world, and it is a world without pain, without conflict, and without truth. The good consequence is the beautiful new reality I have created. The bad thing is that I am the only one who remembers the truth. I have stolen Betty and Robert's pasts and given them a lie. I am now their god, their creator, and their memories are just a story I wrote.

I feel a profound sense of power, but it is a cold and lonely feeling. I have won, but I have won by sacrificing everything that was real. The new detail I am discovering about the book's magic is that it has no limits. I can create reality from scratch, and I can erase anything I want. The book is not just a tool for my story; it is the ultimate tool for controlling the universe. My feelings are a mix of triumph and an existential horror. I am not a protagonist; I am a god, but a god with a terrible secret, a god who must now live with the consequences of their creation.

August 30th

We eat and with an unusual joy, impossible in recent days, we go out to play. We had the best afternoon of our lives. Finally, we go to bed, and I take the opportunity to write in that same room where my despotic and cold mother lived, where Betty was the worst mother possible. But all that didn't happen; it was a bad story, and now the room is friendly and welcoming. I can write in with the moonlight outside, which overlooks the forest and the river Betty imagined. I write long and patiently.

I write about my grandparents, to whom I give a long and peaceful life, without fires or tragedies. I write about Robert and how he became successful in the real estate market and is now not only my neighbor, but my best friend. And I write about Betty. I made her my sister. I think about making Betty and Robert a couple, but I prefer that they be the ones who carve out and choose their own destiny. And I write about my apartment, with no window in the kitchen and no nonexistent bedroom. It's time to go back. So I write about it. I'm in my living room, looking at the same street and the same moon in the sky as in my grandparents' house in the woods. But something isn't right. I smell smoke. The book is taking revenge and wants to end it all. I run to save Robert in the house across the street. Betty and Robert are in the apartment next door, unconscious on the floor. This time there's no escape. We're trapped!

The change manifests as a brutal, jarring reversal. The peaceful, idyllic world I created dissolves, and I am back in my apartment, on a normal street, but with the terrifying scent of smoke. The fire is real, and it is my apartment this time. The others, Robert and Betty, would have noticed the shift. But they are unconscious, their bodies pulled from a reality that no longer exists into a new one. I feel a wave of sheer terror as I realize the book is actively fighting back. The cold, lonely peace I had before is gone, replaced by a desperate, sickening panic.

The consequences of my writing are far from what I intended. I tried to create a perfect world and erased a powerful entity—the librarian—and in doing so, I have angered the book itself. The consequence is both good and bad. The good is that I am no longer alone; Robert and Betty are here. The bad is that the book has brought us all back to a familiar, but more dangerous, version of reality. The scent of smoke is the tangible proof of the book's retaliation.

I question if this is real. The perfect world I just lived in felt so real, but this fire, the scent of smoke, and the unconscious bodies of Robert and Betty feel so much more visceral. My past memories—the ones from the library and the ones from the perfect world—are all jumbled together, and I don't know which is real. But the new detail I'm discovering about the book's magic is that it is a sentient and vengeful entity. It is not a passive tool but a character in its own right, and it can fight back against me. By trying to write a happy ending, I have simply escalated the conflict. The book is not content to simply be a part of the story; it wants to be the writer. My feelings are a mix of triumph at my power, but also a deep, existential dread that I have crossed a line I cannot uncross.

August 31st

There is no escape. I open the book and read the words the book wrote to me. "You have ended my human manifestation, the librarian, and I have no other way to offer you a solution. I warned you. You cannot escape my control. Become my new librarian, write about a library full of books again like me, and we will find new writers to entertain me. In return, I will give you power like you've never dreamed of." Then I remember the notebook that had just been born in the library when I made the books disappear. I write in the new notebook. "Everything is fine" and I put it back in my pocket. The flames reach us threateningly. Betty and Robert are still unconscious. Then I open the unfinished book and write in it. "This has to end. I warned you not to play with me." And I finish with the paragraph: "here ends the story of the unfinished book that is no longer an unfinished tale. The End." I close the book and throw it into the flames. The scream the book produces is heartbreaking. A huge whirlwind engulfs us, and everything falls into unbearable darkness. Seconds later, I get up. I'm in bed. I run out to the adjoining apartment to see if Robert and Betty are okay. They open the door, startled. "You gave us quite a scare!," says my sister Betty, young and pretty as ever. "I bet you had a bad dream." "Didn't you notice the smoke?" I ask them. "What smoke?" Robert asks. "I bet you were thinking about one of those plots from your novels. You're crazy, brother-in-law. All that writing is going to ruin your sanity." They both laugh, happy and in love. They say goodbye to me and close the door. I return to my apartment, not sleepy, waiting for dawn. I take out my notebook with the phrase "Everything's Fine." I smile at it and place it on an empty space on the shelf. A pile of papers containing my next novel awaits me on the living room table. I sit at the typewriter and gaze out the window, imagining a wonderful world for my next novel.

The change manifests as a complete and final narrative reset. The fire, the library, the librarian—all of it is erased as if it were a bad dream. The most noticeable consequence is the profound silence of the past. The world is now peaceful, and I am a successful novelist. The other consequences are good and bad: the good is that Betty and Robert are alive and well, leading the happy life I wrote for them. The bad is that they have no memory of our shared adventure. I am alone in my knowledge, and the beautiful, normal world I created is built on a terrible, forgotten truth.

I feel a profound sense of closure and an unnerving sense of loneliness. I am a master of the universe, but I have no one to share that truth with. The new detail I am discovering about the book's magic is that it is not simply a tool, but a source of power that can be replicated and contained. The small notebook, a "baby" version of the book, now holds a piece of its power, a secret I will have forever. I have not only ended the story, but I have also claimed its power for myself. 

And I'm sure I never want to use it again. This time I made this warning to myself. The notebooks I will use from now on are going to be normal paper. Just in Case!

This is the result of the August 2025 play sessions. If you're interested in getting Charlie Fleming's The Unfinished Tale, you can find it here.