Page 79

 

Mridul, a boy newly touching seventeen, was a reader through and through, fiction was his only love. He’d devoured entire shelves of Sherlock Holmes, the Harry Potter series, and practically anything that smelled of mystery, magic, or crime. The library had become his second home, and over time, he’d developed a quiet company with the librarian. He came so often that even the regular visitors greeted him with familiarity.

It was all routine—until she arrived.

A girl. Unfamiliar face. And unlike most, she didn’t just visit once and vanish. She came every day, sharp, precise—always exactly 7 minutes after 5 PM. Not once early. Not once late.

She never changed her outfit. A high ponytail tied with a red scrunchie, a fluid floral dress with a bow at the back. The same expression. The same silence. She sat at the exact same place the isolated left corner, second row, third shelf of fiction.

What puzzled Mridul wasn’t just her punctuality or appearance. It was the book.

She read the same book every day. And she always stopped at page 79.

No matter how long she stayed, no matter the weather, she’d read to page 79, close the book gently, and leave. The book was short, maybe 100 or 120 pages, easy to finish in a single sitting. But she never moved past 79.

Mridul, a lover of mystery, was intrigued. He scoured the library for a second copy of the book, desperate to discover what made it so special in other words haunting. But nothing. No trace of the title in the system, no matching author, nothing shelved nearby.

He asked the librarian. “Is there another copy of the book she reads?”

The librarian, who’d noticed the girl’s odd routine too, shook his head. “I’ve searched. It’s not part of our collection.”

Curiosity grew. Mridul requested the librarian to ask her about it, subtly.

The next day, the librarian did. She smiled softly and said, “It’s mine. I bring it from home. My family doesn’t let me read fiction, so I read here.” Then she added, almost as an afterthought, “If it helps, I’ll donate it to the library.”

She left early that evening. When Mridul arrived at exactly 5:07 PM, the girl was gone. The librarian handed him the book she’d left behind.

“She said this place used to feel like home,” the librarian told him, his voice quieter than usual, “but now that someone knows, she has to leave.”

Mridul sat in her spot, the left corner, second row, third shelf and opened the book.

It was old, the cover unmarked. But as he began reading, the unease set in.

The protagonist, a girl wore a red scrunchie. A floral dress. Her mannerisms, her presence, her silences… mirrored the girl exactly. It wasn’t just similar. It was her.

 

Then came page 79.

 

The girl in the story dies.

Quietly. Alone. At 5:07 PM.

 

He froze.

The chair across from him was empty.

The air felt colder than it should.

 

The next day, the book was gone.

The librarian said she’d returned early and taken it back.

 

“She said someone read too far.”

 

Mridul never saw her again.

He never learned her name.

And he never finished the book.

 

But every evening at 5:07,

that corner seat remains untouched

and sometimes, just sometimes,

the air smells faintly

of old paper and flowers.

 

And something whispers

from page 79, of  every book he read.