Their Own Story

Prologue

Cover credit to the amazing and talented @angelica20000

The whole book isn't in this POV so just bear with the prologue :p it'll make sense with the epilogue. I swear. It might even make sense before that.

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This has to be the place. It looks right. It feels right. It's gotta be the one. You've finally made it. For a moment, doubt of this place clouds the reason for being there, but that thought is quickly dropped from your mind.  A white door with peeling paint stands like the closed mouth of a lion, bidding you forward. You suck in a breath, turn the faded golden knob, and pull the door open. The bell above the door rings and breaks the silence.

A dim light flickers on and reveals trillions of dust particles floating lazily in the air. A frail looking old woman looks up at the intruder from her spot behind a wooden desk that was probably the same age as she was. The faint smell of vanilla fills the tiny store. Every wall is covered, floor to ceiling, in books of every size, shape, and color. Some look as though they were placed there the day before, and others look as if they had been sitting there since the birth of the shop.

Leaning forward, you whisper into her ear. The woman smiles at your question. Everyone always asks the same thing. She shuffles out from behind the desk, her feet clad in nothing but a pair of grubby brown slippers that make a strange scratching noise against the wooden floor. She picks one of the newer looking books from a low shelf. The white pages are bound in a sleek red cover. The book doesn't have a title or any picture on the front, it is just red. She hands you the book and then shuffles back to the desk. Her blue eyes appear twice as large due to her round glasses as she stares at you, as though she were waiting for something important to happen.

The book opens in your hands. The pages are surprisingly blank. You question her, but her wrinkled face only smiles in response. This is outrageous! Ridiculous! The whole journey was a waste of time. You slam the book onto the desk. She laughs, a cracked sort of laugh, that fit the ancient feel of the shop. She apologizes for the mistake of the blank pages and says that the book is free. None of this makes any sense, and her eyes gleam with dangerous mischief that would make anyone want to leave the store right then and there. For some reason though, you pick the book back up from the desk.

As soon as the book is in your hands again, the old lady bends over the desk and begins to write furiously onto the white sheets that covered the desk's top. She doesn't respond to your attempts at further conversation, she either can't hear you or ignores you. The shop begins to fade around you. Or perhaps you fade from the shop. The book falls from your grip, and disappears. Despite the blank pages, the book had felt important. Now, it was gone.  

A flash of red causes you to blink and notice that you've completely stopped walking. People have started to stare questioningly. The stares send an uncomfortable shiver and cause you to start walking quickly toward your home. As the stares diminish, thoughts about what to have for dinner and when the next shipment will come invade your mind. The shipment was supposed to come yesterday. Late shipments are always a hassle. It's important that the products get out and onto the shelves as soon as possible. The customers demand new things, though you think that the things now are good enough.

Deciding to open the last can of Chicken Noodle soup for dinner, you yank the front door closed harshly. That door always sticks. The television illuminates the room as you eat the soup, straight out of the pot it was cooked in. The light from the TV is enough that you don't have to turn on any other lights. At least some money will be saved on electricity, maybe. After dinner, it's time to get ready for bed. The ragged bedsheets welcome you, finally, after a long day at work. Before sleep engulfs you, the vague recognition of a red book, sitting on the bedside table, crosses your brain.