Two walls were shelves, full of books. A giant fireplace enunciated the third wall, a plush purple-ish chair covered in dust facing the ashes. An enormous window on the last wall stood guard over a desk, bathing it in blue moonlight. A single, small book sat in the center of the otherwise empty desk, a thick layer of dust blanketing the cover. I sat in the creaky wooden chair in front of the desk and took a breath to blow on the book. Coughing through the flying dust, I opened the black leather cover. A small slip of paper fell out, a warning scrawled in fading ink:
“I have something to tell you. Something you need to hear.” The voice was soft, soothing. Deep, but not masculine. Feathery, but not feminine. Familiar, but new.