The red book's new entry echoed in my mind all night:
"Her curiosity becomes the cause."
What cause? Whose?
The next morning, I overheard something strange.
While heading downstairs for water, I heard soft humming coming from the second room on my floor — the one I had never seen anyone enter or exit.
It was always locked. Always silent.
Until now.
I leaned closer.
The humming stopped.
Then, a voice—clear, quiet, and certain:
"You've opened it, haven't you?"
My heart skipped.
The door creaked open slightly. Just a crack.
Inside, I saw a girl — long hair, dark eyes, and pale as if she hadn't seen sunlight in days.
She stepped forward.
"I saw you in the storage room," she said.
"You… live here?" I asked.
She nodded.
"Barely."
"What do you mean?"
She opened her door wider. I stepped inside cautiously.
Her room was nothing like mine — no photos, no decorations. Just books. Red ones. Dozens of them. All stacked neatly. All identical.
My breath caught.
"You knew Ruhani," I whispered.
She sat on the bed.
"She was the first one I ever talked to here. She said the house was strange. She said it liked stories… and hated endings."
"Where did she go?"
She looked down.
"She didn't leave. Not really. She faded. Piece by piece. She forgot names. Then days. Then herself."
She handed me a piece of paper — torn and wrinkled.
It was another page from the red book.
"The moment she reached the end, she became the next chapter."
"She finished it," the girl said. "And now the book wants a new ending."
I felt cold.
"So… what do we do?"
She met my eyes, and for the first time, I saw fear in hers.
"We stop reading… or we become part of it."