Words claw their way across the page.
Things that have long been buried. Secrets stowed beneath layers of falsehood.
The edge of the page crinkles beneath my fingers. Frustration builds within my chest at the never-ending puzzles and partial answers this book gives me. “I have an idea. Let’s try a different approach, shall we?” I say. “You answer in layman’s terms and stop speaking in riddles, we’ll keep it simple. Now, who buried these secrets?”
You did.
I stare at the words.
“What secret did I bury?” I ask, hesitation making the words come out soft. I’ve yet to be decimated, but my good mood certainly has been.
The page stays blank for a minute or so. Words begin drifting across in deep ink, almost as if they’re being etched into the pages.
The answer is not what you buried. But who you buried.
I lean in close to the pages, my heart palpitating. “Are you insinuating that I killed someone and don’t remember? And then buried them?” I laugh a bit hysterically.
This time, the page doesn’t wipe itself clean. It just continues in large, loopy script.
The mirror will give you the answer you seek. You are so much more.
“I don’t have a magical mirror, Silver! I also didn’t kill anyone! What is even going on right now?” I ask, frustration obliterating my earlier mood. “Why are you saying these things to me? Isthis what you do? Just create chaos and watch the world burn around you. You’re not being very helpful.” The words come out rushed and annoyed.
You didn’t ask for help. You asked for truth.
The writing sinks into the pages, disappearing from view.
I look toward the ceiling and pray for patience.
Elegant scrawl writhes under my fingertips.
You demand, yet you do not give.
“WHAT DO YOU WANT?” I scream at the book. So much for patience.
Angry letters dig into the parchment.
HONESTY.
That’s it. Just the one word.
If it’s just one simple ask, why does it send chills up my spine? “Ask me anything and I’ll answer. Unlike you,” I snap, hunched over the book and waiting.
Are you ready to be a Liminal? To lift the veil and see what truly lies beneath?
“Yes,” I answer without hesitation.
You are more than a manifestation. You are a vessel. A give and a take. A corrector of invisible threads. A weaver.
There’s a pause, and then more words appear.
Find your lock. It will undo you.
Then underneath, in sharper scrawl—Seek it anyway.
I stare at the words scribbled in red ink. Appearing like a prophecy disguised as a blood omen. The pages wait with a humming pulse as if they want me to deny them. My fingers hover above the angry red letters. Maybe if I smear it, the book will take it back. “Would Ambrose know anything about this key?” I ask in a cautious tone. It’d be nice to have someone at my side, someone to help me unravel the shit show going on all around.
Without hesitation, red splashes across the page.
