Itsuki Watanabe — Kobe, JapanJanuary 25, 2025 — 1:00 AM (local time)
Itsuki wasn’t really sleeping.
Lying sideways across the couch, headphones hanging around his neck, he stared at a speck of dust caught in a ray of light sneaking through the curtains.
Another night like any other.Nothing to do. Perfect.
Then someone knocked.
Two sharp knocks. No doorbell. Just: knock knock.
He slowly lifted his head, the rest of his body staying perfectly still.
"...Huh?"
He sat up, slipped off his headphones, and listened carefully.Silence.Nothing.
Out of habit, he grabbed his phone.
The date flashed at the top of the screen: January 25, 2025.
He blinked.
Oh, right. His birthday.He'd completely forgotten—or maybe he just didn’t want to think about it.Good. No one had messaged him yet.
He stood up, bare feet on the wooden floor, and wandered across the living room at his own pace.
A quick glance through the peephole.No one.
He opened the door.
The hallway was empty.
But right there, leaning against the wall: a book.
Black. Plain. A little bigger than a regular novel.No wrapping. No label. Not even a bag.Just a book, sitting there.
He stood frozen, staring at it.Glanced left. Nothing.Right. Empty too.The whole landing deserted.
He crouched down, reaching for it.Then looked up, half-expecting to catch someone peeking from behind a door.Nothing.
He picked up the book.It was cold. Heavy. A little too heavy for its size.
On the spine, engraved in silver letters: Unnum7.
He read it out loud without even thinking:
"Unnum... seven?"
He frowned, closed the door behind him without taking his eyes off the book.
This wasn’t a prank.This wasn’t a delivery.There was no logical reason for this thing to be there.
Some kind of weird birthday gift?Not his style to believe in coincidences like that.
And that was exactly what bothered him.
He set the book on the table.Sat down.Stared at it.For a long time.
No logo. No author name. No barcode.Just that single word on the spine: Unnum7.
He grabbed his phone and searched: "Unnum7."
No space. With space. Uppercase. Lowercase.
Nothing. No articles. No definitions. Not even a sketchy forum post.
He put the phone down wordlessly.Leaning on the table with his elbows.
And opened the book.
First page: blank.Second page: blank too.Third page: a single sentence.
I’m sitting in front of the book. Staring at it, confused.
He froze.Blinking at the page.
Turned to the next one.
I just checked on my phone. Found nothing. And now I’m reading this line. Right now.
He sat there.Completely still.The book open before him.
One more page. One more sentence.
A bird will land on the left railing in exactly three seconds. Three. Two. One.
He looked up.
Tap.
A bird.
An owl, perched exactly where the book said it would be.
Calm.Almost like it was waiting for something.
Itsuki slammed the book shut.
He sank into his chair, running a hand over his face.Kept his eyes closed for a moment.
Then, under his breath:
"...What the hell is this?"
Amira Rahimi — Tehran, IranJanuary 24, 2025 — 9:00 PM
Amira sat on the edge of her bed.
Her hair, still loose, fell over her shoulders.She held her phone, doing nothing with it. The screen was black.
The house was quiet.The sun had long since set, but the heat lingered, trapped inside the walls.It was still heavy for a January night.
From the kitchen, she heard some faint noises: her mother putting away some cups.
Then, another sound.A knock at the door. Just once.
She waited.No second knock.
She got up, left her room, crossed the hallway.Opened the door.
No one.
Just a book, lying on the ground.
She stood there, motionless. Didn't touch it right away.Her gaze swept the area around her.It was definitely her doorstep.Not a delivery. Not a mistake. No neighbor in sight.
She bent down and picked it up.
The book was black, with no illustrations, no text on the cover.Just one inscription on the spine: Unnum7.
She stood there for a moment, the book in her hands, perfectly still.
Then she closed the door behind her.
She didn’t say anything.She didn’t think anything specific.
But she held the book close to her.Without really knowing why.
This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
Zoe Bennett — Chicago, USAJanuary 24, 2025 — 12:00 PM (local time)
Zoe lay on her bed, arms behind her head, staring at the ceiling without moving.The gray morning light slipped through the blinds, drawing pale stripes across the walls.
On her desk, the book was still there. Closed.She had opened it the night before, out of curiosity—or maybe out of spite.She had read three lines, then slammed it shut.
It didn’t feel like a prank, but she kinda wished it had been.
Yesterday, her boyfriend had dumped her.By text.The day before her birthday.That took guts.
And today, she woke up to this.A black book, no words, no context, just there.
Honestly, that’s all she needed. One more random thing to mess with her head.
She hadn’t told anyone.Not her mom.Not her best friend.Not even in a private Insta story.Too weird.Too... she didn’t even know where to start.
The lines she had read kept looping in her mind.Like a song you can't get rid of.
You’re going to open it again. You want to know. Even if you pretend you don’t.
She squeezed her eyes shut and clenched her jaw, annoyed.
"Shut up," she muttered.
She wasn’t even sure who she was talking to.Maybe herself.Maybe the book.Maybe both.
She sat up and glanced at the desk.The book hadn't moved.Still there.Still waiting.
She got up, stepped closer, reached out.
But at the last second, she pulled her hand back sharply.
A pause. Then she stepped away.
"Not tonight," she said.
She grabbed her jacket and left the room.She needed air.She needed distance.
But deep down, she knew.
She would open it again.And that was the real problem.
Itsuki Watanabe — Kobe, JapanJanuary 25, 2025 — 8:00 AM (local time)
Itsuki hadn’t slept.
He had closed his eyes, tried to zone out, but his brain just wouldn’t let go.No way to clear his mind.
The book was still there, sitting on the table.Closed, yet way too present.It filled the room somehow—silent, almost oppressive.
After a while, he got up, bare feet against the cold wooden floor.He drank a glass of water without much conviction, then sat back down.
He didn’t want to.But he opened it again.
One page.One sentence.
You will receive a message in 15 minutes. Do not open it.
He froze.
His eyes kept reading the line over and over.Each time, it felt stranger.More real.And his heart started pounding a little harder.
He glanced at the clock hanging on the wall.8:02 AM.Still January 25th.Definitely not the kind of birthday he had pictured.
He did the math in his head.Fifteen minutes. Maybe less now.
He let out a deep breath, stood up, paced the living room three times without purpose.Then came back to the table.
The book hadn't moved.
A pressure built in his head.Not enough to hurt—just enough to cloud his thoughts.
Do not open it.But why?And who was going to send it?
He looked at his phone.Nothing.
He flipped it over, placing it face down on the table, as if that would help him disconnect.
Then he slumped back into his chair.Elbows on his knees, head in his hands.
He closed his eyes, just for a second.
Trying to breathe normally.Trying to forget about the time.
But he couldn’t.
Min-Ji Park — Seoul, South KoreaJanuary 25, 2025 — 8:15 AM (local time)
Min-Ji sat cross-legged on her bed.
The room was still cloaked in half-darkness.Dawn was barely breaking, but she had been awake for a long time.
The book rested on her lap, closed.Next to it, her phone lay face down on the blanket, screen hidden.
She glanced at the clock.8:16.
Happy birthday, she thought, without really believing it.
This day was supposed to be like any other.Structured. Predictable.No surprises.
And yet, she could feel it—it was only a matter of time.She didn’t know what she was waiting for.But she was waiting all the same.
Her throat was dry.Her palms were clammy.
She didn’t believe in things like this.She had always rejected anything irrational—anything that might threaten the control she forced on herself.But what she felt now wasn’t logical fear.It was something older.Deeper.A fear that settled in your gut without explanation.
The phone vibrated.
She flinched.
Her gaze locked onto it.She already knew what it was.No need to turn it over.
She didn’t move.Didn’t reach for it.
She told herself she didn’t want to know.But deep down, she knew she was more afraid of being right.
She gripped the book in both hands.Opened it. Slowly.
A new line had appeared.
You didn’t read it. Interesting.You think that protects you?
She didn’t move.
You’re afraid of a sentence you haven’t even read.And you think you’re ready for what’s coming?
She closed the book, carefully.Let her hands fall back onto her lap.
And stayed there.
Silent.Rigid.Alone with a fear she couldn’t explain.
Asha Okafor — Lagos, NigeriaJanuary 25, 2025 — 12:15 AM (local time)
Asha couldn’t sit still.
Curled up on the couch, she had already changed positions three times.Her fingers tapped aimlessly against the back of her phone, her eyes darting from the TV to the window—and always back to the same spot: the book.
She hated waiting.But what she hated even more was not knowing what she was waiting for.
Her birthday had barely started, and she was already sick of it.
The book had warned her a message would come.And that she absolutely shouldn’t open it.
Why?What would happen if she did?And what if she didn’t?
Her phone vibrated briefly, making her jump.She stared at it.
No name. No number.Just a message.
This book is lying.
She froze for a second.Her heart was pounding harder now.That kind of pressure that makes you want to get up and smash something—without knowing what.
She gripped the phone tighter in one hand.Clutched the book with the other.
"So it’s happening, huh?""What exactly are you testing?"
She unlocked her screen.
Maybe reading the message was a bad idea.But not reading it?That felt worse.
She read it.
Three words.Nothing else.
She had expected more.A link, a picture, a warning, a clue.
But no. Just that.
Her gaze slid back to the book.She opened it.
Nothing.
No reaction.No new phrase jumping out.No snarky comment.
But something felt wrong.
A tightness in her throat—light, but stubborn.A silent alarm she couldn’t ignore.
She closed the book. Slowly.
"Okay."
She dropped the phone onto the coffee table, leaned back against the couch, and stared up at the ceiling.
"You wanna play?"
"I’m not scared of you."
That wasn’t entirely true.But nobody needed to know that.
Elias Nygaard — Oslo, NorwayJanuary 25, 2025 — 12:15 AM (local time)
Elias sat at his desk.
Not a sound in the apartment.The shutters were slightly open, letting in a bluish-gray light, reflected off the snow outside.
He hadn’t turned on the lamp.He preferred letting his eyes slowly adjust to the darkness.
The book sat in front of him.Perfectly centered. Aligned with the edge of the desk.
He had already opened it.Once. Twice. Three times.
He glanced at the clock.12:16.
He knew.He had been waiting for this exact moment.
In less than sixty seconds, he would turn seventeen.To the second.
He never celebrated his birthday.No need.He knew exactly what it meant: a change of state.
He closed his eyes.Inhaled. Exhaled.Then opened them again.
His phone lay flat, screen facing up.
And then it vibrated.Once.
He read the message immediately.
This book is lying.
He didn’t react right away.His eyes stayed fixed on the screen.
Then a faint smile pulled at the corner of his lips.
"Predictable."
He opened the book.
The page was blank.
Then a line appeared.Crisp, sharp, without a flaw.
You’re faster than expected.But is that really an advantage?
He closed the book without rushing.Placed both hands flat on the table.Then leaned back slowly in his chair.
"We’ll see."
Noah Delgado — Mexico City, MexicoJanuary 24, 2025 — 5:00 PM (local time)
Noah was racing down the stairs, skipping two steps at a time.
"Mamaaaaa, did you grab the beers or what?"
No answer.Just the warm Mexico City breeze slipping through the open window.
As he passed the front door, he stopped dead.It was slightly ajar.And right there, perfectly centered on the doormat: a book.
No envelope. No note. Nothing.
He frowned.Glanced left, then right.The street was quiet.An old lady walked by with a dog that was limping slightly.
He picked up the book.All black. No title. No markings.Just one word in silver along the spine: Unnum7.
"Okay... creepy."
He stepped inside and tossed the book onto the living room table, right next to a half-open bag of chips.
Today was his birthday.And tonight, he planned to celebrate properly.
He headed for the kitchen.Opened the fridge, grabbed two bottles.
A flash of light caught his eye—the phone screen lighting up on the counter.
January 24, 2025 — 5:17 PM.
He smiled.Less than an hour before the guys showed up.
His gaze slid back to the book.Still there.Still unmoving.
He looked away.Not in the mood to overthink it.
He went back to his room, cranked up the volume.Some old Mexican rock rattled the walls.
The book stayed on the table.Silent.
But it was waiting too.
