In a moment of clarity Steph looked up from the heavy tome. Her breathing sped ever so slightly. Glimmering dark eyes flitted about the musty library in search of movement but found none. The scene went a little fuzzy as her attention turned inward.
The answers are not written here.
The words came to her mind as though spoken with a quiet, persistent force. She resisted; everything was written here. The echo of the voice would not fade. The words of the text would not resolve beneath her blurred gaze. On the verge of tears and desperation, an uncomfortable for any soul, Steph looked about.
Only the door, heavy and ornate on the far side of the room, revealed itself in clear vision. Outside was danger, chaos, and pain.
Yes, and answers, ones that can’t be read.
Eyes scrunched tightly, Steph bent over the book, not reading, not seeing, and trying not to listen. Her hand, poised to turn a heavy page, trembled in a worrisome way. It resisted her will as did the voice and its nagging echo.