My name is Willow. I’ve never really known a life apart from the uneventful one I have, living with my parents and sisters, and doing what needs to be done. If I told you I find peace in my life and my routine, then I would be lying. For as long as I could understand it, I’ve longed for adventure. Mystery. Something to pull me out of reality and take me someplace else. And when I learned to read, that wish came true. The few hours I spent in our local library were the moments when my life transformed into something more worthwhile to me than chores and studies. The library had always given me fictional adventures, but the last thing I expected was to be the subject of something that surely only happens in books. And yet, I witnessed it with my own eyes.
I know not many will believe me. If you continue reading, know that I appreciate it. I set these words to paper to give you the hope I’d lost before this happened. I need you to understand that, however simple your life may be, the most beautiful things often happen to the simplest people. Don’t lose hope – I promise you’ll regret it.
It was one of those days when I didn’t feel like talking to anyone. I’m not sure why, but every so often, the outside world would seem too fast-paced and busy, yet so boring, causing me to zone out of reality and slip into a world where no one bothered me. After school, I went to the library, making my way to my usual beanbag and opening the book I’d borrowed, only to remember I’d finished it the day before. As I searched for a new read, my eyes caught on a worn, old leather book. Naturally, I was intrigued. I teased the book out of the tight space it had been wedged in and peered at my finger. Dust. Wondering when someone last looked at it, my eyes drifted to the top of the cover. There was no title. Nothing on the inside either, no publishers, no date, no hint of who had written it at all. I sat down, clutching the book tight, my pulse quickening. My eyes lingered over every groove on the book’s cover before finally opening it. I began to read. And the first thing I noticed was that the main character…had no name.
I don’t know how long I sat in that library reading, assuming the missing name was intentional. Once I started, I was completely lost in my book until the librarian came and told me it was time to go. I had never stayed so long in the library, and left hastily after checking out the Unnamed Book, as I had begun to call it.
I finished the book that night. Stayed up till 1 am, willing the book to give up its secrets. But when I reached the last page, expecting a second book since this one wasn’t ready to end yet, the sentence stopped midway. The plot was unfinished. There was no ending.
When I woke the next morning, the book was still in my hands; I must’ve fallen asleep from sheer exhaustion. Strange doesn’t even begin to describe my day after that. First, I heard fragments of conversations with words I remembered reading the previous night. A coincidence? Perhaps. But later, I couldn’t bring myself to believe it was just happenstance when the words of the Unnamed book were no longer confined to the crisp, yellow pages. They were unfolding. In real life. I knew what was going to happen hours before it did. Plot twists that surprised my classmates hardly fazed me. The rest of the day was a blur; I could almost feel the gears in my head working vigorously. I headed to my sanctuary straight after school, my walk quickening into a frantic run. There I stood at the entrance, gasping for breath, bursting straight in, and tore open the book. Wait. The blanks…weren’t blank anymore.
They had been filled in. In my handwriting. With my name. Every emotion I’d felt during the day, every thought I had, was reflected in the book. I pinched myself hard. No sudden gasp. No waking from a dream. This was reality, I realised. This was what had to happen. The author intended for me to discover this incomplete book. Meant for me to know that this is my story. And I decide how it ends.
