The Mans

Henry Brinks had always been a man of routine. As a history professor at Merrivale University, his days were structured, predictable, and entirely unremarkable. He arrived at his lectures precisely ten minutes early, his leather satchel swinging in tandem with his steps, and returned home to a modest apartment filled with books that smelled of ink and time. If there was any excitement in his life, it lay buried within the pages of the past, a world far removed from his own.

That was why he found himself in the university’s neglected East Wing Library late one Friday evening. Known for housing books too outdated or obscure to warrant shelving in the main library, the East Wing was a haven for Henry—a place where he could lose himself in forgotten texts, untouched by the demands of modern academia.

The manuscript was not supposed to be there.

He stumbled upon it while reaching for a faded tome on early Mesopotamian trade routes. The book slipped from his grasp, landing with a dull thud that echoed in the silent library. As he knelt to retrieve it, his fingers brushed against something unexpected—a leather-bound volume, worn with age and devoid of any markings on its cover.

Curiosity stirred in his chest as he picked it up. The leather felt oddly warm to the touch, and the faint scent of damp earth clung to it, as though it had been buried for decades. He opened it carefully, expecting brittle pages or illegible script. Instead, he found symbols—intricate, mesmerizing, and utterly alien.

The writing pulsed with an almost lifelike quality, the ink shimmering faintly under the dim light. Henry’s heart quickened. Despite years of studying ancient languages, he couldn’t recognize the script. It wasn’t Greek, Latin, or even Sumerian. It was something entirely different.

His fingers traced the edges of the pages, which were unnervingly smooth, almost like pressed silk. As he flipped through, he noticed something else: drawings scattered throughout the margins. At first glance, they seemed random—sketches of constellations, fragmented maps, and abstract patterns. But the more he studied them, the more they seemed to connect, as if forming a puzzle waiting to be solved.

It was the final page that truly stopped him. Unlike the others, it contained a single line of text, written in a language he could barely comprehend. Yet somehow, the meaning became clear as he stared at it, his mind piecing together its cryptic message:

"The abyss opens when the stars align, and those who seek its secret will never return."

Henry shivered, a chill running down his spine despite the warmth of the room. He closed the book, but its words lingered in his mind. It was just a story, he told himself. An old, forgotten relic. And yet, as he slid the manuscript into his satchel, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he had unearthed something meant to stay hidden.

The silence of the library deepened as the clock struck midnight.

Outside, the stars began to shift.

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