Elias missed his bus that morning.

  He wasn’t sure how. He’d left the apartment with plenty of time, the familiar rhythm of his steps and the sound of his shoes on the sidewalk as reliable as the sunrise. But when he rounded the corner toward the station, the bus was already pulling away. He stood there for a moment, staring at the tail lights disappearing around the bend, and for a second—just a second—he wished he could feel something about it.

  A kind of urgency. A need to chase it down and make it right. But that would be too much. Instead, he sighed, ran a hand through his hair, and walked down the street.

  The air was thick with fog, the kind that clung to your skin, leaving you cold despite the warm morning. Elias didn’t mind. He’d lived most of his life in this muted quiet, the edges of the world blurring together.

  His phone buzzed in his pocket. Another reminder to confirm a meeting that felt like it could’ve been an email.

  He didn’t bother checking. His feet led him down a path he’d never walked before.

  The buildings here were older, the bricks darker, weathered by time and neglect. As he passed a series of alleyways, his eyes caught something on the corner of his vision. A narrow storefront that didn’t belong.

  It wasn’t a café or a clothing store. It didn’t advertise anything. The sign simply read “The Last Shelf.” It was half-hidden behind a stack of boxes, and for a moment, Elias wasn’t even sure it was open.

  Curiosity—or maybe just the absence of a schedule—nudged him forward.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  The door creaked as he opened it, a soft, familiar sound. Inside, the bookstore smelled like dust and history, the scent of old pages woven into the very fabric of the place. There were no customers. No shelves neatly organized by genre. No vibrant posters or catchy promotions. Just rows and rows of books. The walls seemed to bend inward, as if the space itself had settled over years of stories, waiting for someone to hear them.

  He wasn’t sure why he felt the sudden, strange pull to explore, but he found himself drifting through aisles, his fingers brushing the spines of forgotten novels.

  At first, he didn’t think much of it. There were no other customers, no one behind the counter, and yet, there was an unshakable feeling that someone was watching him. Not with eyes, but with something older. Something that had seen too much time pass.

  And then, tucked behind a stack of yellowed cookbooks, he saw it.

  A small, worn leather-bound book. Its cover was smooth but cracked with age, and there was no title. No author. Just an odd sense of familiarity that pulled at him.

  Elias hesitated for a moment. Something in the back of his mind told him he shouldn’t pick it up. But there was something magnetic about it. Like a moment slipping through his fingers.

  He ran his fingers across the cover, and as if the book had been waiting for him, it opened in his hands.

  One page. One line.

  He squinted, his heart suddenly racing as he read the words scrawled in faded ink:

  “You won’t become the hero. But you were never supposed to.”

  His chest tightened. The simplicity of the words felt heavy, like a truth he couldn’t name.

  Elias flipped the page, but there was nothing. No more writing. Just empty pages, white and waiting. He turned it back to the first page. And again, there it was.

  He closed the book with a sharp breath, his hands trembling slightly. The room seemed too quiet now. Too still. The world outside the store felt far away, distant. The fog still hung in the air, but it wasn’t as thick as before. It wasn’t as cold.

  For a moment, he didn’t know what to do with himself. He wanted to leave. But he didn’t. Instead, he tucked the book under his arm and walked to the counter, where no one stood, waiting for him to pay.

  Still, the book felt as if it belonged to him.

  Without a price, without a label, without a name.

  He didn’t think twice. He left a few bills on the counter, though no one was there to take them, and stepped back out into the street.

  ?

  As he walked home, the fog had started to lift, but the weight of the words stayed with him. You won’t become the hero. But you were never supposed to. He wasn’t sure why the lines felt so familiar. They weren’t his. But they were something he had always felt.

  He wasn’t the hero. He wasn’t the one anyone would remember.

  But as the book settled under his arm, Elias couldn’t help but wonder… maybe that was the point. Maybe, he had never needed to be.