the mouse squeaks (2)

The mouse freezes, its nose quivering as it scents the air. A faint smell of mildew and something sharper—metallic, like blood—lurks just beyond its comprehension. The mouse considers bolting but doesn’t. Instead, it advances toward the book, tiny claws clicking against the warped wooden floor.

Something about the book draws it closer, though it lacks the words to explain why. The library is not a quiet place, despite its abandoned appearance. Whispers echo from the darkened shelves, not of human voices but of shifting paper and the faint groans of wood contracting with the cold.

Outside, rain taps against leaded glass windows, the pattern irregular, like a message in some long-forgotten code. The mouse’s ears twitch, attuned to every sound. It reaches the book.