beyond the pages

chapter 1

                Emily Williams

"Mom, I'm heading to the library," I called out, darting outside into the warm sunlight. The fresh air filled my lungs as I breathed in, feeling invigorated.

"Take care," she replied, her voice fading into the distance.

I hopped on my bicycle, feeling the worn leather seat beneath me, and pedaled away. The wind whipped through my hair, carrying the sweet scent of blooming flowers.

As I arrived at the library, the familiar scent of books—old paper, ink, and dust—enveloped me, transporting me to a world of stories. I smiled, my eyes scanning the towering shelves.

I flashed my student ID at the librarian, who nodded in recognition, her eyes crinkling at the corners. She knew me well from my frequent visits.

The soft hum of fluorescent lights above and the gentle rustle of pages turning created a soothing background melody. I wandered through the aisles, running my fingers over the spines of the books, feeling the raised letters and embossed covers.

As a romance reader and writer, I sought inspiration among the shelves. My debut novel, "The Eclipse," hadn't gained much traction, but I didn't let that discourage me. Now, I was itching to start writing again.

With renewed purpose, I began browsing, scanning titles and authors, searching for the perfect story to spark my creativity.

As I wandered through the shelves, the musty scent of old books enveloped me, transporting me to a world of forgotten stories. My fingers trailed over worn spines, feeling the raised letters and embossed covers. The soft glow of fluorescent lights above cast a warm ambiance.

My gaze landed on "Love is Real." The title made me smile wryly, a hint of sadness creeping in. "Only in fiction," I whispered, remembering past heartaches and disappointments.

The dedication touched my heart: "For those who find love in fictional men." I felt understood, yet a pang of longing struck. Why couldn't love be real in my life?

Turning pages, the soft rustle filled the silence. Then, I saw him: "Miles Daniel." His name danced on the page, captivating me. A flutter in my chest surprised me – I hadn't felt this way in a long time.

But doubt crept in, a nagging voice whispering, "You're delusional, falling for fictional characters again." I pushed the thought away, indulging in the fantasy.

"Turn the page, love," a soft voice whispered from behind.

I spun around, but the aisle was empty. "Who was there?" I furrowed my brows, wondering if I'd imagined it.

Shrugging it off, I returned to the book. As I turned the page, disappointment washed over me. The story abruptly ended, and the remaining pages were blank.

"Only three chapters?" I muttered, frustration creeping in. The book claimed to have 30 chapters.

Determined to uncover the rest of the story, I approached the librarian, book in hand.

"Excuse me," I said, "this book seems incomplete. Why are there only three chapters?"

Ms. Thompson, the librarian, looked up and smiled warmly. "Ah, 'Love is Real.' That book has an interesting story behind it."

I leaned in, curiosity piqued.

"It was written by the late Ana Smith," Ms. Thompson began. "She only managed to complete three chapters before passing away. Her last wish was for this book to be published, exactly as it was."

I frowned, confusion etched on my face. "But... there's no resolution, no ending."

Ms. Thompson chuckled, her eyes twinkling. "That's the fascinating part. Ana Smith left a note saying, 'The story will continue when the right reader finds it.'"