The note had been clear.
"Find the red book."
It haunted me all morning. What red book? Where was it? And more importantly — why?
After my classes ended, I walked straight to the university library. Not because I was sure it was there, but because I didn't know where else to begin.
The library was massive — the kind that smelled of old paper and quiet secrets. Rows upon rows of forgotten books, journals, and shelves taller than me.
I approached the desk. An old librarian with a tired smile looked up from her screen.
"Hi… I'm looking for a red book. I don't know the title. But it might be handwritten. Something personal?"
She raised an eyebrow. "We don't keep personal journals here, dear. Is it a novel?"
"No… I think it's more like a diary. Maybe someone donated it? Or left it behind?"
She sighed, leaned back, then pointed toward the Special Archives section.
"Down that corridor. Last room. If it's something unusual, it might've ended up there."
The room was cold. Dust clung to the air like silence.
I skimmed through dozens of boxes and shelves. Old yearbooks, unclaimed notebooks, scrapbooks with torn covers.
And then…
On the bottom shelf, beneath a stack of local alumni records, I found it.
A weathered red notebook, bound in soft leather, stained and cracked with age.
No name. No title.
Just a single sticky note on the cover:
"Do not remove. To be reviewed."
My fingers tingled as I opened it.
The pages were full of looping handwriting — scattered thoughts, panicked entries, and scratched-out sentences.
The first page read:
"If you're reading this, it means I couldn't finish. You still have time."
My heart pounded.
I flipped through quickly. The entries were dated, but not consistent. Each page more erratic than the last.
Then, around halfway in, written in big letters:
"Countdown started. 7 days left."
And below it… each day crossed off.
Until the last legible entry:
"Day 3. Something moved last night. It knows I know."
Then… nothing.
No Day 2.
No Day 1.
Only a ripped-out page and a smudge of red ink — or blood.
I stared at the book, still holding it open.
Who wrote this?
Was it… Ruhani?
And if her countdown ended — but was never finished — what was I counting down to?