It's not a book.
That's the first mistake everyone makes.

Books end.
Books behave.
Books don't look back.

This one remembers.
Every finger that trembled across its spine.
Every name that dared to be spoken while holding it.
Every soul that bled into its margins, believing they were the author.

The pages turn themselves, sometimes.
Other times they refuse to turn at all.
Some remain blank until the right eyes fall upon them.
Others... write back.

It has no title until it decides to show you one.
And when it does, the letters will look wet.
Still warm.
Still watching.

Don't ask how many chapters it has.
It writes a new one every time someone tries to close it.

You think you're reading it.
But it's reading you.

And if it's in your hands now.
then it's already decided how your story ends.