'THE MAN IN THE BOOKSHELF'

'ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴀɴ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴏᴏᴋꜱʜᴇʟꜰ'

I stumbled through my apartment door, the weight of my overstuffed tote bag pulling my shoulder down as if anchoring me to the realities of a long, grueling day at the office.

My heels clacked against the hardwood floor, echoing in the quiet solitude of her entryway.

As soon as the door clicked shut, I leaned back against it, exhaling a deep sigh of relief. The world outside, with its incessant demands and unrelenting pace, was momentarily barred entry.

The apartment was dim, the only light filtering in through the sheer curtains draped across my living room windows, painting soft shadows on the floor.

I flicked on a lamp, its warm glow immediately softening the edges of my day. I toed off my heels, relishing the plush carpet under my feet as I padded towards the kitchen.

A quick twist of the tap, a glass filled with cool water, and a long, satisfying gulp—it was ritualistic, a brief moment of respite before I surrendered herself to her true escape. I set her glass down and walked into the bedroom.

Taking a stained night dress out of the closet, I went to the bathroom for a relaxing cold shower after a long, busy, and tiring day.

Water cascaded down my back, the cold droplets contrasting sharply with the humidity that still clung to my skin from the day's heat. Each droplet carried away a bit of the stress, draining it all down into the depths of the shower drain.

After a few minutes under the relentless stream of water, I stepped out, feeling somewhat rejuvenated. Wrapping myself in a fluffy towel, I wiped the fog from the mirror and stared at my reflection.

My eyes looked tired, as always. I quickly patted myself dry and slipped into the comfortable embrace of my satin nightdress.

Back in the bedroom, I approached my cherished bookshelf, my favorite corner of my house.

I ran my fingers over the cracked spine of a worn book, its cover black and dark red. I pulled it out, the book weighing down in my hands yet somehow feeling free.

After taking the book off the bookshelf, I crawled into my comfortable soft bed, a soft blanket wrapped around my legs. The dim light from the lamp on the bedside table was enough for reading, isolating me from the rest of the world.

With a deep, satisfied sigh, I opened the book to the bookmarked page and immersed myself in my favorite thing.

After having dinner with my office colleague, there was no need to prepare anything for myself at night, so without worrying about anything, I could get lost in the world of my fictional world. 

Back in the bedroom, I approached my cherished bookshelf, my favorite corner of my house.

I ran my fingers over the cracked spine of a worn book, its cover black and dark red. I pulled it out, the book weighing down in my hands yet somehow feeling free.

The bed embraced me as I sank into it, and the book opened to the last page I'd marked with a dog-eared fold. I was back in the throes of my obsession—a morally grey character whose complexities make him more interesting.

While reading, my eyes started getting heavy, and I didn't realize when I fell asleep.

I had probably been asleep for barely 10 minutes when I woke up to the sound of something.

As I slowly emerged from the haze of sleep, the sound persisted—a faint yet distinct rustling coming from somewhere in the room. I blinked groggily, trying to get up in the dim light filtering through the curtains.

Shifting slightly, I reached out to the bedside table, fumbling for the lamp switch. 

With a click, the room was bathed in a warm glow, casting long shadows across the walls. I focused on the source of the noise. It seemed to be coming from the kitchen.