January 25, 2025 — 09:37 AM (local time)
Noah woke up with a dry mouth and a fuzzy head.
He’d slept sideways on the bed, fully dressed, one sock still on, the other lost somewhere between the sheets and the floor.
The slightly open window let in a warm breeze, carrying the familiar dust of Mexico City.
He sat up groggily, reached for his phone on the nightstand. The screen lit up.
Messages.
? Feliz cumple, cabrón! ?
Stupid memes, half-drunk voice notes, blurry photos from the night before.
Typical.
Then, one message stood out from the rest.
No name. No number.
Just three words:
This book lies.
He reread it. Once. Twice.
Tapped the screen, searched for any hidden details. Nothing. Nada.
“What book?” he muttered.
He dropped the phone back onto the mattress and rubbed his eyes.
And that's when he heard it.
Not from the street.
Not from the apartment.
Inside his head.
「開けたくないな… 変な気がする」
A man’s voice. Deep. Serious.
The tone was tense, almost hostile. Noah didn't understand a single word, but the intention was clear.
He froze.
Then a second voice burst in.
Female, this time. Rapid. Panicked.
“Mi ò fé ?í i. Kí ni gbogbo èyí túm?? sí?”
Another unknown language.
But fear spoke clearly, needing no translation.
He scanned the room.
Nothing. No one.
He jumped out of bed, rushed through the hallway, and collapsed onto the living room sofa.
One hand in his hair, thoughts still muddled.
Then his eyes caught an absence.
The book.
Gone.
No longer on the table where he'd tossed it yesterday, amidst an empty chip bag and a discarded soda can.
Vanished.
He exhaled deeply, jaw tight.
“OK… something’s seriously wrong. I'll deal with this later.”
Min-Ji Park — Seoul, South Korea
January 26, 2025 — 00:47 AM (local time)
Min-Ji sat at her desk.
Her computer screen displayed an unfinished planning sheet, untouched for hours. She wasn't even looking at it anymore.
Her attention remained fixed on the Book.
Placed right beside the mouse. Closed.
Still there. Too present.
She hadn't slept. Not a minute.
She’d thought she could handle it.
Analyze, categorize, comprehend. Rationalize.
But since she’d opened this thing… something had broken loose.
A noise—not external, but internal buzzing.
Voices.
Not her own.
Snippets of sentences, emerging from nowhere.
One voice she recognized. Japanese.
Not every word, but the intonation, the sounds. She’d studied it a bit.
The other voice… unknown.
Sharp, rhythmic.
A language she’d never heard before. Impossible to identify.
Yet somehow, she understood it.
Or rather, felt it.
The voices came in waves.
Like thoughts projected too loudly, too close.
Her gaze returned to the Book.
It didn't move.
But she could feel it—heavy in the air, charged with static tension.
“Are you doing this?”
She opened it. Slowly.
A blank page.
Then a sentence appeared:
You want to understand everything. Without feeling anything.
She clenched her jaw.
A second message wrote itself immediately:
And that’s your problem.
The voices returned, clearer now.
A complete sentence in Japanese.
Then another, in that indecipherable yet oddly lucid language.
She startled.
Closed the Book abruptly.
Stood up.
Then froze.
Muscles taut.
Heart beating fast, but controlled.
That's when she realized:
She wasn’t panicking.
She was losing control.
And for her, that was far worse.
Elias Nygaard — Oslo
January 26, 2025 — 07:28 AM (local time)
Inside Elias’s office, everything was arranged precisely.
Cold, neat, controlled.
Before him lay two objects:
A black notebook, filled with observations.
And the Book.
Closed.
He spoke softly, not to reassure himself, just to structure his thoughts.
Ritualize thought.
- 24/01 – 07:12
Received the Book.
Found at my doorstep. No wrapping. No doorbell. No witnesses.
Appearance: Black cover, plain. No title on the front.
Spine reads: "Unnum7" in silver letters.
Temperature: Unnaturally cold.
Weight: Denser than an ordinary book. - 24/01 – 07:25
Opened the Book.
Read three sentences, in sequence:
"I'm sitting in front of the book. I’m looking at it without understanding."
"I just checked my phone. Found nothing. And I'm reading this line now."
"A car alarm will go off exactly five seconds from now. Five. Four. Three. Two. One."
10:43:27 → Real alarm sounded outside. No visible movement. Thick snow.
→ First confirmation of an external prediction. - 24/01 – 22:07
Message spontaneously written in the Book.
Did not open it. It manifested on its own, closed on my desk.
Exact content:
"You will receive a message in 15 minutes. Do not open it." - 25/01 – 00:17
Received an SMS.
Sender unknown (no number, no metadata).
Message: "This book lies."
Personal note: Exact time of my birth.
→ Disobeyed. Opened the message. No immediate consequence. - 25/01 – 10:00
Another spontaneous message in the Book. Closed. Text appeared independently:
"You think sorting everything out is enough to understand."
→ Irony noted. Direct provocation. Possibly targeted.
Asha Okafor — Lagos
January 26, 2025, 13:10
Asha woke with a start.
No sound. No light.
Yet something had switched on in her head—a clear, irreversible click.
The book was still under her bed.
She’d hidden it there this morning, hoping to sever the connection.
Failed.
For some time now, foreign thoughts had been slipping into hers.
In irregular waves.
First, a girl’s panicked voice in an utterly unknown tongue.
Then a young man, nervous, drowning in blurry conversations and muffled laughter. He shouted above the mental chaos.
And now, clearer than the rest, another voice.
Female. English. Tired but determined.
"If anyone hears this, I don’t care. I just want to know where the hell this is coming from."
Asha opened her eyes.
She’d understood perfectly.
She was bilingual.
English was effortless for her.
“Okay… If someone hears this, I don’t care. I just wanna know where this shit is coming from.”
She said it aloud. Just to confirm it was real, not a trick of her mind.
She sat up.
Ran a hand over her forehead.
Snatched the book from under the bed, slammed it onto her desk.
“You hiding a mic? A hidden camera in the cover?”
The book didn’t reply immediately.
Then, slowly, its pages flipped open.
A single sentence appeared:
Do you think you're the only one trying to understand?
She stood tall, heart quickening, yet she didn’t retreat.
“No. But I’m talking. So answer.”
Another line emerged:
Start by asking the right question.
She shut the book abruptly.
Stayed standing.
Arms crossed. Eyes fixed on the black cover.
“You better answer soon.”
Elias Nygaard — Oslo
January 26, 2025, 1:37 PM
Notebook — Voices Heard: Update
Since yesterday, the voices have multiplied.
They arrive unannounced. In flashes.
Always mental. Always internal.
As if I'm catching someone precisely when they're thinking.
I've counted six so far.
Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.
Mental Timeline
01/25 — 08:30 AM
Voice 1
Female. Deep. Unknown African language.
Two distinct sentences.
No translation. Alerting tone, almost prayer-like.
→ Pure sound. Zero mental imagery.
01/25 — 09:12 AM
Voice 2
Male. Mexican accent.
Party atmosphere around him: shouting, music, bursts of laughter.
One word clearly caught: “Fiesta!”
→ Confused mind, agitation, palpable frustration.
01/25 — 08:50 PM
Voice 3
Female. Korean accent.
Rapid, fragmented speech. Young voice.
No understanding, but clear and intense fear.
→ Emotional intensity too strong to ignore.
01/26 — 10:40 AM
Voice 4
Female. American English.
Very short, unfiltered mental thought:
“Fucking book... I can’t sleep.”
→ Exhaustion. Quiet anger. Directed at no one, just thought.
But this one made me react.
Because I heard it fully, clearly, undoubtedly.
General Observations
"None of these voices speak my language."
And suddenly, a thought occurs to me:
Maybe the connection works through thought…
But only thoughts expressed in a common language can actually transmit.
Could English be that language?
Hypothesis:
What if thinking in English increases the chance of being heard?
Or even creates a contact point?
Because this girl—I don’t know who she is—but her voice was so strong I could’ve sworn she was right here.
I'm going to test it.
A deliberate thought. Targeted. Carefully formulated.
In English.
I'll send a signal.
Min-Ji Song — Seoul
January 26, 2025, 9:38 PM
She can't take it anymore.
The book is still there. Same spot as always.
On her desk.
Placed like part of the décor.
As if it had always been there.
And that drives her crazy.
She ignored it all day.
Or at least, she tried.
She cleaned her room. Sorted her files. Organized her schedule.
Did everything but touch it.
But it remains.
Watching her.
She hates when an object resists her.
She hates unanswered questions.
She hates feeling her control slip away.
Then the voice comes.
Inside her head.
“If anyone hears this… try thinking in English. It might help.”
A boy. Unknown. Fluent English.
And suddenly… everything jams.
She understands. Of course she does.
But she doesn't want to understand.
Thinking in English.
Expressing something in a language she knows but hates having to use.
Because she knows her worth in Korean.
Because in English, she loses elegance.
She loses her voice.
She stares at the book. A long time.
Then she sighs, almost reluctantly:
“…okay. Hello? This is a test.”
Her own voice sounds fake.
Not the intonation she wanted.
Too soft. Too foreign.
And the silence afterward feels like a slap.
She stands still for a moment.
Then she rises.
In one swift move, she grabs the book.
Crosses the apartment.
Opens the balcony door.
Outside, the cold is sharp.
A metal bucket, gasoline, a box of matches.
She throws the book to the bottom.
Pours gasoline generously.
Crouches down.
Strikes a match.
The wind blows it out.
Another. Same result.
Two matches left.
She closes her eyes. Just for a second.
Then she smiles.
Not joyful. Defiant.
“You chose the wrong girl.”
She strikes the third.
The flame holds.
She drops it.
The fire erupts.
Hot. Intense. Violent.
She watches it burn.
Without a word. Without blinking.
Later…
She returns.
Slowly. Not from fear.
But because she needs to know.
And she sees it.
The book.
On her desk.
Open. Perfect. Like new.
One clear sentence:
Did you really think it was over?
She steps forward.
Places her hand firmly on the desk.
And says quietly, directly:
“You have no idea who you just woke up.”
Noah Mendoza — Mexico City
January 26, 2025, 2:05 PM
“Mamá?!”
Noah walked through the hallway, half-awake, wrinkled t-shirt, mismatched socks.
In the kitchen, his mother was sautéing onions. The smell hit him instantly, stinging his already tired eyes.
“Where’d you put the black book?”
She raised a hand, phone pressed to her ear.
Finished her sentence calmly, then turned to him.
“What book?”
“The book! A black one. I left it on the living room table yesterday.”
“I put it in the cabinet by the entrance. With all the junk you left lying around. Why? You reading now?”
“I don’t know. I just... want to read it.”
He didn’t give her time to answer.
He darted to the cabinet, opened it, started digging.
An old pair of glasses, a keychain, some papers, a USB cable he didn’t even recognize.
But no book.
He sped up. Opened the bottom doors, searched blindly.
Then returned to the living room. Lifted cushions, checked under the couch.
“Mamá! It’s not there!”
“Well, I put it there. I’m not imagining things.”
She shrugged and went back to her onions.
She hummed quietly, unbothered.
Noah stood frozen in front of the cabinet.
A furrow in his brow. Doubt in his chest.
He thought back.
That morning, he’d seen a strange message on his phone.
Three words. No sender. No number.
This book lies.
And right after... a voice.
In English. A woman. Talking about a book.
Not a hazy memory. Not a dream.
And now, the book was gone.
His phone buzzed.
He picked it up.
You should’ve paid attention.
Still no name. No source.
He didn’t move.
Stared at the screen until it went dark again.
“What the hell is this...?”
He glanced around, hoping for an answer.
Nothing. Just the sizzle of the pan.
And his mother, humming like nothing had happened.
Zoe Bennett — Chicago
January 26, 2025, 5:06 PM
Zoe sat on the floor, back against her bed, knees pulled up, arms crossed over them.
She stared at the wall, not really seeing it.
Her mind kept spinning around the book.
She was done.
Too many questions, too little sleep.
And no explanations that made any sense.
Since yesterday, nothing had added up.
That weird message.
The book that wrote by itself.
And now... this.
Voices.
Not in the street.
Not around her.
In her head.
The first voice had come without warning.
A gentle female voice, in a language she didn’t recognize.
Just a few words, almost whispered.
She hadn’t understood, but the intent was clear: this wasn’t a dream.
Then another.
A young man this time. Tense.
She recognized the Spanish—she was learning it in school.
The sentence came out fast, tinged with barely contained anger:
“?Dónde está el maldito libro?”
She couldn’t help but reply, under her breath, like someone might actually hear:
“Beats me, dude. I’ve got my own book to deal with.”
She sighed.
The exhaustion weighed on her, but it was the internal noise that drained her most.
“What the hell is this… Am I losing it?”
She turned her eyes to the book beside her bed.
Closed, as always.
But it felt more present than it looked.
“The voices... where are they coming from?”
No answer.
But the echoes in her head didn’t stop.
Nothing clear. Nothing distinct. Just a presence, a mental buzz stuck to her thoughts.
It wasn’t silence that scared her.
It was the overflow.
That low, constant hum she couldn’t shut off.
She placed her hand on the book.
Just a touch. To make sure it was still there.
To make sure she wasn’t going crazy.
“If you’ve got answers, you’re gonna have to do better than that.”
She opened it.
Not to read. Just to see.
A sentence appeared immediately:
You want answers. But you’re not ready.
She frowned.
“Seriously? Now you’re giving me lectures?”
She turned the page.
You talk a lot. But you understand nothing.
A short laugh escaped her.
Dry. Nervous. Defensive.
“You don’t know me. So shut up.”
Another page.
Sure I do. You’re still reading.
She froze.
Was about to answer, but stopped herself.
That one hit.
Well played.
She closed the book. Fast. Almost angry.
Held it in her hands for a moment.
Then exhaled:
“Alright. You want to play? Let’s play.”
She threw the book onto the bed.
And looked up at the ceiling.
Not searching for answers.
Just to breathe.
In her head, there was no silence anymore.
Only that strange feeling—
Like a dialogue had just begun.
And the book, somewhere, had accepted the challenge.
Elias Nygaard — Oslo
January 27, 2025, 12:32 AM
The silence in his room is perfect.
Snow keeps falling, slowly, beyond the window.
Everything is still. The world feels on pause.
Elias sits cross-legged on his bed, light gray pajamas on.
His notebook lies flat across his knees.
His cup of tea is empty, forgotten on the desk.
The book rests beside him, closed… for now.
He rereads his notes methodically.
Then adds a line. A reflection. A test.
27/01 – 00:32
Thought sent earlier today, 1:40 PM.
In English. Carefully phrased.
Mentally revised twice before transmission.
No reply.
No voices.
No manifestation.
I waited.
Ten minutes. An hour. The entire day.
Nothing.
→ Hypothesis weakened.
→ Either the link is not bidirectional.
→ Or I’m the only one trying.
→ Or the system is mocking me.
Highly possible.
He sets the pen down.
Closes his notebook slowly.
And at that exact moment—the book vibrates.
He turns his head.
The book has opened.
No contact. No trigger.
Two clean lines appear.
The lines were written in English.
“Sending a signal?”
“Cute.”
He doesn’t smile.
He just thinks, simply:
Delayed response.
Mocking tone.
You’re trying to provoke.
Wrong target.
Somewhere, far from the books...
“They’re starting to hear, aren’t they?”
“Mhm. Looks like it. Some faster than others.”
She leans against a low stone wall, a cup of coffee in hand.
The air is dry, filled with both shadow and light.
He’s staring at the horizon.
Not stressed.
Not reassured either.
“What do you think of them?”
“Alive. Curious. A bit lost.”
A pause.
“One of them is taking notes.”
He smiles. So does she. Just the corner of her lips, almost proud.
“There’s always one. Gotta have a brain in the mix.”
“Or an obsessive. Depends how you look at it.”
A silence. Light—but dense.
“They hear. But they don’t understand yet.
And more importantly, they’re not ready to choose.”
She finishes her sip, sets the cup down on the stone.
“Do you think they’ll make it?”
“That’s not the question.”
“Oh no?”
“The real question is: will they trust each other.
And that…”
...“that’s always where it breaks.”
A cold wind picks up. Neither of them moves.
“And her?”
“She’s watching. Waiting for the moment. Like always.”
“You know you never feel that moment coming.”
“I know. That’s the whole problem.”
A heartbeat.
Silence returns, heavy with meaning.
She looks up, almost speaking to herself:
“They’re going to hate each other before they love each other.”
“Of course. They’re human.”
Then they say nothing more.
But they both know:
The countdown has already begun.