One Second Late

I opened the book because it was the only thing left in the room that hadn’t tried to warn me away.

The cover was plain, dark blue, no title. It smelled faintly of dust and something sharper, like metal. As soon as the first page lifted, the house went quiet. No creaking pipes. No wind in the trees outside. Even the old clock in the hall stopped ticking, right between seconds.

The first line was written in my handwriting.

If you’re reading this, you already waited too long.

I flipped the page. My pulse thudded in my ears. Each paragraph described things I remembered doing, but never writing down.

The argument with my sister last winter.

The loose step on the back stairs. The dream where I stood in this room, holding this book, telling myself it was just a coincidence.

I laughed once, sharp and nervous, and turned another page.

The next chapter was short.

You will hear the door behind you open. Do not turn around.

The floorboard near the doorway creaked.

I held the book tighter, my fingers damp against the paper. The words on the page were still, patient, as if they knew exactly how this would end.

I did not turn around.

I counted my breaths instead. One. Two.

Three. The room felt smaller, as if the walls had leaned in to listen. I could hear something behind me now, not footsteps, not quite. More like the careful sound of someone deciding where to stand.

The page warmed under my hands.

A new sentence bled into the paper, ink darkening as I watched.

Good. Keep reading.

My throat tightened. I swallowed and forced my eyes down.

It will try to make you remember the version where you leave. The version where you drop the book and run. That version is kinder.

It is also a lie.

The smell of metal grew stronger. I thought of pennies on my tongue. Of the time I bit my lip hard enough to taste blood and felt oddly calm afterward.

Behind me, a breath that was not mine brushed the back of my neck.

I read faster.

You are wondering when you wrote this.

You are wondering how. That is not important anymore. What matters is that you finish.

Another creak. Closer. I felt the pressure of a presence, a weight in the air, like a hand hovering just shy of touching my shoulder.

The next page stuck, as if glued. I pried it loose with my thumb.

This is the part you always stop at.

My chest tightened. I shook my head, a small, stubborn movement, and kept reading.

You stop because you think knowing the end will make it happen. You still believe in cause and effect. You always did.

A soft sound came from behind me. A sound like a smile.

I turned the page.

When you finally turn around, you will understand why the warnings never worked.

You were not meant to be saved. You were meant to be recorded.

The book trembled. Not in my hands. On its own.

Slowly, against every instinct I had left, I lifted my eyes from the page.

The last line wrote itself as I watched.

Now you can look.

I turned.

The room was empty.

No shadow. No shape in the doorway. Just the same narrow walls, the same peeling paint, the same chair where I’d been sitting.

For one foolish, fragile moment, relief rushed through me so fast it made my eyes sting.

Then I noticed the mirror.

It hadn’t been there before. Tall, narrow, leaned against the wall behind me. The glass was old, clouded at the edges, threaded with fine cracks like veins.

I was standing in it.

Not sitting. Standing close enough that my breath fogged the surface. The book was in my hands there too, but the cover was different. Not blue. Black. Thick. Swollen, like it had absorbed something.

Like it had absorbed me.

In the reflection, my eyes lifted and met mine. The timing was off by a fraction of a second, just enough to feel wrong. The reflected me smiled, small and knowing.

I looked down at the book in my hands.

The pages were blank.

Behind me, the clock in the hall started ticking again. One second late. Always one second late.

The reflected me opened the book.

I felt the words settle into place behind my eyes, familiar and sharp, lining up the way they always did. The way they had the first time. The way they would for the next person who found the room quiet and thought they were alone.

I understood then. Not all at once.

Understanding came the way ink does, spreading slowly until there’s no clean paper left.

I closed the book.

The house exhaled.

Somewhere, a door opened.

And in a room that would soon belong to someone else, a plain, dark blue book waited patiently, knowing it would be read again.

The footsteps came next. Not mine.

They moved through the house with the careful curiosity of someone who still believed in empty rooms. Drawers opened.

Floorboards tested. A pause at the bottom of the stairs, long enough for doubt to flicker and be ignored.

I stood very still. When they paused, something in me tightened, impatient, the way a held breath aches to be released.

The mirror no longer showed my reflection.

It showed the room as it was before I turned. The chair. The dust. The faint outline where the book had rested. When I shifted my weight, nothing changed in the glass. I wasn’t there anymore, not in any way that mattered.

The footsteps climbed.

With each step, the book in my hands grew heavier. Not physically. It was a pressure behind my ribs, the sense of something settling into a place that had been waiting for it. I knew, without checking, that the pages were filling. Not with my handwriting this time, but with something close enough to pass.

The door to the room opened.

They hesitated in the doorway. I could feel it, the way you feel someone looking at you even when your back is turned. A shallow breath. The faint rustle of fabric. The moment where the air changes because a choice is about to be made.

The pressure eased when they stepped forward.

Their eyes went to the book on the chair.

Of course they did. The house had learned where to put it.

They stepped inside. The door closed behind them with a soft, final sound that made the walls relax. The clock in the hall skipped, just once, catching up to itself.

I felt the first line take shape.

I opened the book because it was the only thing left in the room that hadn’t tried to warn me away.

The new reader frowned, puzzled by the familiarity of the words, by the strange sense of recognition that tugged at them like a half-remembered dream. They reached for the book.

I didn’t stop them.

I couldn’t have, even if I wanted to.

The mirror darkened, its surface smoothing until the cracks disappeared. When it cleared again, it showed the room from a slightly different angle. The chair was occupied now.

The book was open. A person sat exactly where I once had, heart beginning to race, fingers already damp.

Behind the glass, I watched with the calm that comes after the last decision has been made.

The house went quiet.

And somewhere between seconds, the story began again.