Noah Delgado — Mexico CityJanuary 26th, 2025 – 3:44 PM (local time)

  The microwave was beeping in the kitchen. Noah leaned against the counter, eyes on his phone, his mug still empty on the side. Two messages popped up on screen. Did you check your story? Then a second one. Bro, you were dancing with a broom. A broom. He blinked. Opened the app. The video was there. Him, in socks, dancing around his room with a broom. He had no memory of filming it. Let alone posting it.

  He stood there for a few seconds, then sighed. Grabbed the mug, poured the coffee, and headed back to his room.

  He stopped cold.

  The Book was on his desk.

  Open.

  He frowned. He hadn’t taken it out. He’d left it in his bag. Zipped shut. He was sure of it.

  He stepped closer. The pages were blank. Then a line appeared—black, clean, right before his eyes.

  I let you sweat a little. We’re even.

  He froze.

  WTF. The Book just wrote that. Right in front of me.

  He turned a page. Blank. Another. Still blank. He flipped through them all. Nothing. Back to the first one. Also empty.

  He closed the Book. Then opened it again.

  Hello Noah.

  He stepped back.

  You pretend not to understand. It’s easier.

  He glanced at the ceiling, then back down at the page.

  “Wait… is this Death Note now? If I write names, do people die?”

  Would you rather be told? Or figure it out yourself?

  He let out a short, dry laugh.

  Okay. I’m losing it, and cracking jokes so I don’t lose my shit completely.

  He stared at the page, brow furrowed.

  “Was that you? The voices? Last night?”

  Silence.

  A book opens.You just wait for it to speak on its own.

  Okay. It’s him. The sentences. The voices. The mess since yesterday. It’s him.

  He looked around. Nothing had changed. Everything looked normal.

  But the Book was writing.

  And that part was real.

  Min-Ji Park — SeoulJanuary 27th, 2025 – 7:18 AM

  She’d been awake for a while. Not because the alarm had forced her out of bed—she just hadn’t really slept.

  Sitting on her bed, already in uniform, she stayed still. In the dim morning light, the walls around her felt like they were waiting too. And on the desk, sitting in plain view, was the Book. Still there. Too present. She hadn’t hidden it. Hadn’t shoved it in a drawer. Hadn’t tried to make it disappear. She’d left it right there. On purpose.

  The day before, a voice had crossed her mind. In English. Calm, male, clear.He had said: “If anyone can hear this… try thinking in English. It might help.”

  She’d answered, mentally.Alright... this is a test.But nothing had happened. No echo. No vibration. No response.

  She clenched her jaw—not because she doubted her comprehension, but because she hated having to speak in a language that wasn’t hers. She didn’t like her accent. She didn’t like what it revealed about her. That loss of control over her own words. It made her feel exposed. And she couldn’t stand that.

  But she wasn’t stupid. If others were hearing things too, if someone else had spoken, there needed to be a common language. And English, for better or worse, was the logical choice. Not ideal. Just necessary.

  She adjusted her blazer. Her breathing had calmed. Then she grabbed her bag and paused for a second in front of the Book. After a short hesitation, she took it with her. No words. No explanation. Just slid it into her bag. Just in case.

  Outside, the morning air stung faintly against her cheeks. The sidewalk was damp, and cars moved quietly through the milky light. She walked at an easy pace toward the bus stop. No music. No phone.

  Only the thoughts spinning in her head. And one quiet possibility: maybe there were others. Maybe they were already connected. Maybe it had already started.

  She took a slow breath. Closed her eyes for a second. Then, in a steady, deliberate inner voice, she thought, in English:

  “My name is Min-Ji. I’m seventeen. I live in Seoul. If anyone hears me… who are you?”

  Still nothing.But this time, she wasn’t expecting a reply.

  She boarded the bus and took a seat by the window. The Book rested in her bag, just heavy enough to remind her it was still there.

  Zoe Bennett — ChicagoJanuary 26th, 2025 – 4:18 PM (local time)

  Outside

  She was walking fast.Hood up, nose red from the wind.Her earbuds crackled in her ears, but she wasn’t really listening anymore. Too much noise in her head.Since the day before, she hadn’t really slept.She closed her eyes. She turned. She overthought everything.And that damn book just sat there, closed, on the bed, like it was waiting for her to give in

  Eventually, she’d gone outside.To breathe. To run away. She wasn’t sure.

  The sky was a pale gray.The kind that makes you feel like the day is over, even though it’s barely past four.

  She crossed an empty street, passed a deserted bus stop.And that’s when it came back.

  “My name is Min-Ji. I’m seventeen. I live in Seoul. If anyone hears me… who are you?”

  She stopped.A shiver—not from the wind, but from inside.Not a thought she could’ve made up.Not a familiar voice.Just… something external.

  She started walking again.Slower this time.Her head tilted slightly, like she was trying to catch something she wasn’t supposed to hear.

  Itsuki Watanabe — KobeJanuary 27th, 2025 – 6:58 AM

  The sword was already put away.

  He’d woken up early. As always. He had gone through a few katas, barefoot on the living room floor, in the gray silence of dawn. Not to train. Just to breathe. To ground something inside.

  Now he was in the kitchen, a cup of tea in hand. Watching the steam rise, calm and focused. The black book lay beside him. Not hidden. Not forgotten.

  He hadn’t told anyone. Not his mother. Not his friends. Because there was nothing to say yet. Only things to understand.

  Since the day before, voices had started to echo. In his head. Clear. From elsewhere. A girl, possibly African. A language he didn’t recognize, but urgency in the tone. A boy too. Somewhere in Latin America. He’d felt it—exhaustion, chaos all around him. And then another. A girl. English-speaking. The only one he’d fully understood.

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  “If the book knows what I’m going to do before I do… what’s the point of choosing anything?”

  That one, he’d written down. It had hit something. Though he didn’t yet know why.

  He set the cup down. Took a notebook from his bag. Opened to a blank page. Wrote slowly, methodically.

  27/01 — 06:51

  Voices heard so far: 4 (various languages)Only one fully understood. English.Mental impact: increasing.Hypothesis: the link is active, even across distances.

  He paused. Looked at the book. The black, titleless cover seemed to be waiting.

  He didn’t open it. Not yet. But he picked it up and placed it in his bag with deliberate care. He didn’t like being forced into things. But he respected what he didn’t yet understand.

  Before leaving the room, he added one last line—more personal:

  I want to stay clear-headed. But something is starting.

  Then he stepped outside.

  The sky was clear. The air sharp. The sounds of the neighborhood still muffled.

  He wasn’t afraid. But he was alert.

  And even if he wasn’t talking about it yet, he already knew one thing: others were out there. And eventually, they would cross paths.

  07:25 — One voice. A girl. Fluent English, calm tone. She introduced herself: Min-Ji. 17 years old. Seoul. She asked: “Who are you?”

  I didn’t answer. Not yet. But she’s real. She’s searching too.

  She had spoken.She had asked the question.

  She wasn’t entirely passive anymore.And she knew it: from today on, something had shifted.

  Amira Rahimi — TehranJanuary 27th, 2025 – 7:18 AM

  The sun was barely creeping through the drawn curtains.Amira had been up for a while, but her body still refused to pick up the pace.

  She had run her hand under cold water. It hadn’t helped.The night had left her drained, more tired than rested.

  The black book was still sitting on the corner of her desk.She hadn’t touched it. Not since the day before.And yet, it was there. Present. Silent. Heavy.

  She’d woken up with that sentence still in her head.A voice she had heard late yesterday morning.Clear. Male. In English.

  “Can anyone hear me? If yes… think in English.”

  She had understood every word.And that was exactly the problem.

  She didn’t hate English.She actually spoke it fairly well.To her, it was tied to something else.To the outside. A wider world. Less closed off.A world where she could choose her words, her gestures, her clothes.

  But this?

  She hadn’t chosen it.Someone had entered—straight into her head.No warning. No permission.

  She had kept quiet.Out of pride. Out of instinct.Because she refused to answer a command, even a gentle one.Because freedom doesn’t come when it’s imposed.

  She took a sip of lukewarm tea, then set the cup down.Her eyes drifted—unintentionally—toward the book.

  She stepped closer. Opened it.

  A sentence had just appeared.

  You choose silence. Interesting.

  She shut it instantly.No expression on her face, but irritation was rising.

  She walked a few steps.Bit into a piece of bread, didn’t finish it.Put it back on the table.Returned to the book.

  Another sentence had formed, this time on the cover, etched as if carved into it:

  Saying nothing still says something.

  She stood there, motionless.

  She thought of her mother.Her father.Of the invisible lines not to be crossed.Of the permissions always to be asked.Of the looks to avoid.

  And of that voice, out of nowhere, that had spoken to her.Not in Farsi.But in a language she understood—and would have preferred to use on her own terms.Not under pressure. Not like a key forced into a lock.

  She exhaled, deeply.Then, with a sudden but controlled motion, grabbed the book and slipped it into her bag, between her chemistry notebook and pencil case.

  She hadn’t answered.She hadn’t promised anything.

  But she was taking it with her.

  Asha Okafor — LagosJanuary 27th, 2025 – 6:46 AM

  Music thumped in her earbuds.

  Barefoot on the tiled floor, cotton shorts, tank top tied at the waist, Asha moved through an Afrobeats routine. Her shoulders rolled, hips snapped, feet slapped against the ground. Every motion sharp, grounded, precise. She wasn’t smiling. She was dancing just to stay upright.

  But even that... wasn’t enough to quiet the strange feeling in her gut.

  The weekend had left her drained. Frustrated. And curious, too.

  And that damn book…

  She stopped. Killed the music. Pulled out one earbud, then the other.

  The black book was still there. Half-tucked under her pillow. She stared at it like it had moved on its own.

  "You want my attention, huh? You like playing the mysterious type.”

  She walked over. Set it on her desk. Opened it.

  Nothing.

  Then—just a hum. A light pulse in her palm.

  And a voice slid into her head. In English. A boy’s voice.

  "Hello Min-Ji. Nice to meet you. My name is Itsuki, and I live in Kobe, Japan."

  Asha sat upright. Brows furrowed.

  “Min-Ji…? Itsuki… Kobe…?”

  She said each word softly, like testing them. They hadn’t come from her. She knew that much.

  She sat down slowly. Rested her hands on the book.

  “So you’re not just some weird hallucination. They’re real. And you’re just throwing them at me like it’s nothing?”

  She flipped the book open again.

  A sentence had appeared:

  You wanted the truth, didn’t you?

  She let out a short, dry laugh.

  “Oh, you’re cheeky.”

  Another line followed:

  You’re the one dancing. I’m already listening.

  “Oh, I’m not your audience. You can play smart, but don’t forget one thing…”

  She leaned in, tapping the page with her finger.

  "You chose me. Not the other way around."

  She stayed still for a moment. Then carefully closed the book. Slipped it into her bag, no hesitation.

  Before leaving her room, she stopped in front of the mirror. Gave her reflection one last look.

  Guess I’m not alone after all.

  “I’m Asha. I live in Lagos. And I really want to understand what the hell is going on.”

  She wasn’t expecting a reply.

  She already had one.

  Zoe Bennett — ChicagoJanuary 26th, 2025 – 11:40 PM (local time)

  She’d been home for a while, but she wasn’t asleep. Just lying on her back in the dark, the covers pulled up to her chin, the book within reach on the nightstand. Closed. Always closed. And yet, that didn’t stop the voices from coming.

  "Hello Min-Ji. Nice to meet you. My name is Itsuki. I live in Kobe."

  The voice had come straight into her head—clear, calm, too precise to be a dream.

  She didn’t open her eyes. She stayed there, still, fists clenched under the sheets. A strange tension crawled up the back of her neck. She wasn’t alone. Not completely.

  And as soon as the silence returned, another voice followed. Sharper. Female. Confident.

  "I’m Asha. I live in Lagos. And I really want to understand what the hell is going on."

  Zoe inhaled slowly. The names floated in her mind—Min-Ji, Itsuki, Asha. Three voices. Three people. Three cities. And not a single explanation.

  She sat up all at once, grabbed the book from the nightstand, and stared at it.

  "You, right?"

  The book stayed silent. As always.

  "What the hell do you want? Why me?"

  She snapped it shut, threw it onto the bed, then sat there, head in hands.

  "I'm so done..."

  She didn’t move.

  Didn’t understand a thing.

  Elias Bergstr?m — OsloJanuary 27th, 2025 – 12:31 PM

  The courtyard was quiet. A few small groups laughed in the distance, focused on chips or scrolling through stories. Elias sat alone on a bench, slightly apart. His back was straight, his black coat neatly buttoned. The sky was pale and flat, and the light warmed nothing.

  On his lap, a notebook lay open to a blank page. Next to him, inside a partially open bag, was the Book. He no longer went anywhere without it. Not out of attachment—out of necessity.

  He reread his latest notes in silence: the voices, the timestamps, the fragments. And this morning, two new pieces of information. A girl—name: Asha. Clear, assertive voice. She had introduced herself and mentioned her city: Lagos. No ambiguity. And just before her, another voice. A boy—name: Itsuki. City: Kobe, Japan. Tone: calm, neutral.

  He paused, focusing for a moment on that name. Itsuki... it was the first time he’d heard it. No direct link to Min-Ji, but something about it triggered a subtle connection. That city, Kobe. That name. His thoughts sharpened.

  He took out his phone and searched: "Min-Ji name meaning". The first link led to a website about Korean names. He skimmed the page: "Min-Ji" was indeed a common Korean female name, often used to convey beauty, clarity, or deep cultural roots. He exhaled, storing the information mentally. Not much. But a step forward. A small thread.

  He slowly closed his phone and returned it to his pocket, then picked up his notebook again and began writing:

  27/01 – 12:34Thought sent — Language: English — Clear, deliberate, targeted phrasing

  “This is Elias, 17, Oslo. I’m tracking the voices. The link is real. If you hear me, reply by introducing yourself and saying where you’re from. Briefly.”

  He stopped. Capped his pen. The message had been clear. Balanced. Neutral. Just enough.

  He waited. No vibration. No signal. The Book remained closed. But he wasn’t surprised.

  He smiled, barely, and added another line to the notebook:

  Direct communication attempt. Identity intentionally partial. Message structured to test initiative and precision in recipients. No response so far. Hypothesis: variable delay or selective transmission.

  He carefully pulled the black book from his bag and placed it in front of him. Closed. Compact. Untouched. He hadn’t reopened it since morning. He hesitated. Then, with deliberate calm, he exhaled and murmured,

  “You see? You can keep playing smart. I’m still moving forward.”

  The Book didn’t react. But Elias didn’t need an immediate reply. He was mapping the voices, the names, the places. And in his mind, a pattern was starting to form.

  Before closing the notebook, he wrote one last line:

  They’re revealing themselves. Bit by bit. And I’m establishing landmarks.

  The bell rang. He packed the notebook, closed the bag, and stood up.

  Somewhere, far from the booksJanuary 27th, 2025

  The sky was clear, but offered no warmth.The silence around them felt thick.They walked slowly, side by side, with no urgency.

  “Are you planning to speak to them?” he asked, not looking at her.

  “Not yet,” she replied. “Not until they show something.”

  He nodded gently.

  “You’re uncertain,” he said after a pause.

  She didn’t answer right away.

  “You are,” he continued. “But you’re ready. I can see it.”

  A small, quiet smile slipped from her lips.“I learned with you.”

  He stopped for a moment, hands tucked into his pockets.“Still, I can feel your tension. Are you afraid?”

  She halted and looked him straight in the eye.“Not for me.”

  He lowered his gaze, quietly thoughtful.“You know you can’t control everything.”

  “I know.”

  They kept walking.A pause.Then, softly:

  “Do you think they’re ready?”

  She stared toward the horizon.“I think they’re still trying to make sense of what they’re hearing.”

  He nodded slowly.“Then I guess silence is your last lesson.”

  She turned her head slightly toward him.“Silence… or patience.”

  They walked a few more steps.A breeze passed between them, light and discreet.

  Then he whispered, as if reminding her of something long forgotten:

  “Eva, don’t be too hard on them.”

  She looked up.Her eyes shimmered.But she didn’t say anything.

  And that was enough.