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Theo was 20 years old, a quiet, introspective college student with dark, thoughtful eyes and a mop of unruly brown hair that always fell into his face. He had grown up almost entirely on his own in a small apartment near the edge of the city. His mother had died in a car accident when he was just four years old, leaving him with only hazy memories of her soft voice and warm hugs. His father had remarried and moved to another country when Theo was seven, taking his new wife and their children with him, and leaving Theo behind. Over the years, his father’s phone calls became less frequent until they stopped altogether. Theo had learned not to expect anything from him—not even a birthday greeting or a short message. His father’s absence became a hollow space in Theo’s life, a silent emptiness that echoed with the ache of abandonment.

But Theo had learned to fill that emptiness on his own. He developed a deep love for books and stories—especially those that spoke of ancient legends, of powerful kings and hidden realms, of magic and monsters lurking in the shadows. He would spend hours in the library after his classes, losing himself in tales of other worlds, perhaps because they were so different from his own.,

On weekends, Theo would wander the city alone, sketching people in parks or listening to music in tiny coffee shops. He didn’t have many friends—he had always been a bit shy, preferring the company of fictional characters to the unpredictable messiness of real-life people. He liked the quiet; it was a kind of sanctuary where he could piece together his thoughts without interruption.

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Beginning...

The night this story begins was an ordinary night, or so Theo thought. He had been studying late at the old city library—a grand, echoing place with towering bookshelves and a faint smell of ink and ancient paper that always made him feel calm. He had exams coming up, and he’d lost track of time, his head buried in a thick textbook about European folklore.

By the time he finally looked up, his eyes stinging from the dim reading light, the large clock above the library’s main doors read just after midnight. He blinked in surprise, realizing how late it was. The library was eerily quiet, the usual murmurs of other students gone, leaving only the ticking of the old clock and the faint rustle of the heating vents.

Theo quickly packed up his notes and tucked the folklore book under his arm. He walked toward the entrance, but when he tried the door, it was locked tight. He rattled the handle a few times, a cold unease creeping up his spine.He called many time to open the door but nobody hear his voice.

He murmured to himself, trying to sound braver than he felt. But he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was very much alone.

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Deciding it was best to wait,

Theo wandered the darkened library’s maze of shelves. He ran his fingers over the worn spines of the books, the hush of the place wrapping around him like a blanket. His footsteps echoed softly on the polished marble floors, and he found a strange comfort in the solitude.

But as he drifted through the aisles, something unusual caught his eye—a small, leather-bound book that seemed to glow faintly in the shadows. It was tucked behind a row of ancient volumes on demonology and folklore, its cover etched with twisting symbols that pulsed softly, as though alive.

Theo’s curiosity flared. He pulled the book free, his fingers brushing the strange patterns that felt oddly warm beneath his skin.

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