Chapter - 1

Lila Rowen's pov

I once thought major changes were preceded by warning signals — thunder, yelling, tears.

But that day was just another peaceful Wednesday.

The bell had sounded, and I'd gone home like the rest, earbuds in, face down. The air was heavy with the smell of rain, the sort that never actually arrives, only lingers, thick and restive. I took the bus home, staring at the same cracked window and the same row of houses that all seemed to have lost hope of being anything more than bland.

When I walked into the Hayeses', the door creaked open just as it always did.

Maggie was in the kitchen, talking too fast on the phone. Robert's car was not in the driveway — no surprise there. I put down my bag in the hallway and made a beeline to my room.

I hadn't expected anyone to be there waiting.

But when I shoved the door open, Suzan was standing there — standing stock-still next to my desk. She was always too tidy for an establishment like this. Her dark locks were pulled back in a knot so tight it gave me a headache just to glance at it, and her navy coat wasn't creased anywhere. The kind of person who smiled without ever meaning to.

"Lila," she answered, nodding her head. "I was told to wait for you."

Brilliant. Another check-in. Another reminder that I was being cared for.

I sat on the edge of my bed. "Did I do something wrong?"

"No," Suzan answered, tone lacking inflection. "I have some information. Your grandmother, Eleanor Rowan, passed away last week."

For a moment, I said nothing.

I did not even know that she was alive.

Suzan placed a small cardboard box on the desk. "She left behind a few things. Especially, she told you to bring these."

There was a few letters, tied up with a frayed red ribbon, and an old walkie-talkie, the kind that had a silver antenna and a dial that you turned with a click.

I frowned. "Why in the world would she leave me this? I never even met her."

Suzan shrugged, that type of bureaucratic indifference which rendered everything seem inconsequential. "I don't know. But she insisted."

She chatted on a bit longer about sign-offs and forms, about reading the letters when I was ready. And then she departed — as quietly as she had come in.

When the door closed with a click, I stared at the box for a very long time. The radio glowed with the last rays of light from the window, the metal shimmering as if it were trying to speak. I almost picked it up, but instead moved it to the edge of the desk, next to the stack of notebooks I never finished.

"Later," I told myself.

But somewhere inside me, I knew that later had already started.

Chapter - 2

Lila Rowen's pov

As soon as that meeting with Susan was finished, I went to the library.

It's not much — only two floors, one functional coffee machine, and shelves full of books that smell of dust and old glue. But it pays a little, and I need that. Foster kids don't get an allowance; we earn them, dollar by dollar.

Maya says the building's haunted. I think it's just forgotten.

I had the radio in my bag. I brought it because I wanted to give it to Ben, the kid who works the night shift with me. He collects old junk — typewriters, cassette players, weird stuff like that. But he wasn’t there yet.

The library was empty, the kind of quiet that presses on your ears.

I wiped down the tables, straightened the chairs, did all the small things that make you feel useful even when you’re not sure why you’re doing them.

When I was done, I sat behind the desk, pulled the radio out, and turned it over in my hands.

The metal felt cool, heavy. I tried the dial, not expecting anything.

At first, there was only static — the dry whisper of nothing.

Then, without warning, a voice broke through.

“Good evening,” the man said, smooth but warm.

“Welcome to Channel 88. I’m Daniel.”

I froze. The sound was clear, real.

He wasn’t reading from a script — he was talking, like he knew someone was really listening.

He told a story about walking home one night in the rain, how the world looked different when streetlights hit puddles, how silence could feel alive if you stayed in it long enough.

The way he spoke… it wasn’t boring. It wasn’t loud.

It just felt true.

For a while, I forgot I was in a library.

It was like the room was breathing with his words.

Then he said, softly:

“Tomorrow, same time. Same frequency.”

And just like that — the signal vanished.

Only static again.

I sat there, staring at the radio like it might start talking back.

When Ben finally showed up, I didn’t give it to him. I couldn’t.

I just said I’d changed my mind.

Later that night, I looked it up — Channel 88 radio broadcast.

Nothing. No website, no schedule, no host named Daniel.

For a second, I thought maybe I’d imagined it.

But the radio was still there on my desk, faintly humming like it remembered something I didn’t.

Chapter - 3

I told Noah about the broadcast the next day.

We sat on the little brick wall out in front of school, the one where everyone sat to cut through. The sun hadn't decided yet what kind of day it wanted it to be.

He stood there initially, fingers pushed deep in his frayed gray hoodie. His hair had gotten too long once more, falling into his eyes like it always did whenever he tried not to care. A pencil stuck in the back of his ear — there always was one.

"So, let me understand this," he said finally. "You used a broken radio, and some random guy named Daniel offered you life advice?"

"It wasn't like that," I said. "It was real. I searched it up — Channel 88. There's nothing. It doesn't exist."

He shrugged me away with that half-smile of his, the one that always looked like a challenge.

"Then perhaps you misspelled it."

I rolled my eyes. "Noah—

"Come on, Lila." He dropped his bag from his shoulder. "You're tired. Maybe it was just static and your brain filled in the blanks."

That stung more than I had expected. He wasn't being snide, but sometimes Noah hid his nervousness behind being a sarcastic wit.

"Fine," I said, crossing my arms. "Then come over tonight. Same time. You'll hear it for yourself."

He paused, as if he'd say no — and then shrugged. "Okay. If it'll make you feel better."

"It's not about feeling better," I complained.

He didn't answer, just gave that small, crooked smile and walked away towards the parking lot. Wind picked up the sketches spilling out of his notebook.

I stood there and let him walk away, my chest tight with something I couldn't identify — maybe doubt, maybe hope.

Either way, tonight, I would not be hearing in solitude.

Chapter - 4

Noah came at dusk.

He didn't say much when I asked him in — just nodded, pulling on the sleeves of his hoodie as he sat down on the floor. His bag of chips crunched between us, unopened. I knew he was not attempting to be too curious.

The radio on the desk was dark and utilitarian, like it never whispered through the flow of time.

"Ready?" I asked.

"Ready to be disappointed," he said, smiling half-heartedly.

I turned the dial.

Static first, the gentle hum of the world's breath.

A low thrum.

A voice — steady, measured, almost soothing.

"Good evening, listeners. I'm Channel 88. I'm Daniel. Tonight, I'd like to talk to you about a lost book — one which never found its way home."

Noah's eyebrow went up, but he didn't interrupt me.

"Its called The Mirror Library. Originally published in 1974 by a tiny Vermont press. Less than two hundred were printed.

No one knows who wrote it — the author's name was likely a pseudonym. But the tale, well… haunts."

The voice ceased. Paper rustled softly in the distance.

"It's a library made entirely out of reflections — glass walls, silver shelves, and books that reflect like water. Each book has a different version of the same story, but told by a different person. If you stand in the hallways when it blows, you can hear the stories whispering to each other."

Noah's expression shifted. He wasn't smiling anymore.

"In the library lives a caretaker. She never comes out. She believes that if she steps out, her own story will be erased — rubbed off from all the pages of reflection. So she dusts the shelves, repairs the bindings, and listens. That is all that she does: she listens."

The sentences fell slowly into the room, even and measured.

The atmosphere was thicker, the lamplight less harsh.

"Later, she discovers something strange. The reflections are altered. The faces in the mirrors are no longer hers. They speak to her in voices she has never heard. some

weep. Some laugh. And one day, one of them writes her name at the back of a book she has never touched before."

Silence for so long. Then:

"That is the heart of The Mirror Library: a place where stories remind you when you forget."

I discovered I'd been gasping for air.

Noah glanced at the radio, his brow furrowed — no longer derisive, only… curious.

Daniel's tone softened again.

"A number of pages remain from the initial printing. On page ninety-three, one finds:

Every reflection is a question the world asks of you. And every book is the silence that waits for your answer."

He turned off the words hung in the static and shut down:

"Thanks for listening. Tomorrow, same time, same station."

The radio then went silent.

Noah swallowed. "Okay," he said quietly, his voice rough. "That. was kind of lovely. Weird, but lovely."

"Yeah," I panted. My fingers traced the rim of the radio's dial.

A car passed by outside, the headlights casting shadows on the wall like the ghost of the real thing.

And I wasn't sure at all that I wanted to hear the next broadcast — or if I already was.

Chapter - 5 

The next morning, I couldn't shake the book from my mind.

The Mirror Library.

Even the name sounded burdened, as if it had a weight I didn't know about.

I went directly to the library where I worked after school.

It was silent, too silent — only the hum of old lights and the quiet whisper of pages turning on their own.

I sat at the front counter and started searching.

First the catalog. Nothing.

Then the interlibrary database. Nothing.

Even the archived papers — scanned cards from the 1980s — drew a blank.

I searched every spelling that occurred. Mirror Library. Library of Mirrors. The Mirrored Book.

Still, nothing.

It wasn't just rare. It was as if it had never existed.

I took to my phone and Googled.

Page after page — blogs, academic postings, even

auction sites. Nothing.

No title, no author, no fragments, no clue.

Frustration clutched my chest. I called Noah.

He picked up on the third ring.

"Hey," he mumbled. "You okay?"

"I've been looking for the book Daniel discussed last night. It's nowhere. Like, literally nowhere."

I heard the scratch of pencil on paper — he was probably drawing.

"Yeah, I searched too," he said. "Nothing. Maybe it's just part of the broadcast. Like fiction."

"It didn't sound like fiction."

"Maybe that's the point," he murmured.

I hadn't been able to reply before my radio on the desk started to crackle.

No dial was moved, no button pressed — it just sprang back to life.

"Noah, it's happening again," I gasped.

"Already? It's early."

The crackle ceased, and Daniel's voice was heard — softer this time, but more weighted somehow.

"Good evening, listeners.".

Tonight, we’re standing at the edge of an old house, where the wallpaper peels like skin. The year is 1981. The floorboards remember footsteps. And somewhere inside, a clock keeps ticking, though no one is left to wind it.”

My breath caught. Noah stayed quiet on the line.

There is blood on the rug, but not much. Whoever killed him knew exactly where to strike.

One swift swipe. Behind the ear. The kind that silences a man instantly.

The words stretched out slow, measured, clinical — like from a man describing a memory he could not forget.

"The window was open. The air was thick with rain and iron.

Outside, a woman was humming.".

She hummed the same thing twice.

My skin crawled.

Noah exhaled, "Is this— real?"

I didn't know.

"They never found her," Daniel continued.

"But they found the radio still playing. This one, in fact."

An extended silence.

Then just static again — thin, tenuous, endless.

I discovered I was shaking my hands.

"Noah?" I inquired.But the line had been disconnected.

The only thing that remained was the gentle hiss of the radio —

and beneath it, I could have sworn I heard something else.

A hum.

A woman's voice.

Soft. Familiar.

Chapter - 6 

It all seemed heavier by morning — like the air itself had learned to listen.

Noah and I had lunch on the bleachers behind the football field, our trays still full.

He was drumming his pencil on his notebook, gazing off into space.

"So you really heard it?" I asked.

"The same broadcast?"

He nodded slowly. "Yeah. Mostly. But."

He hesitated. "Some of the words were different."

"What do you mean different?

I listed them out." He flipped open a page. "When Daniel recounted the murder—never did he say Thomas Avery. He said Lena Avery. A woman."

I felt a knot in my stomach. "Maybe the signal went out."

"Maybe," he murmured. "Or maybe it wasn't the same story."

We didn't say much after that. The bell rang, people poured, and we just sat there as the world went back to its normal routine like nothing had happened.

After school, I was waiting for Maggie's car to be parked at the curb.

There was a woman standing by the gate instead — tall, wrapped up in a dark green coat, her hair neatly pulled back.

As she looked at me, she smiled — the kind of smile that tries to remember what it used to mean.

"Lila?" she said. "You've grown."

Her voice contained a strange warmth, one I had no idea how to answer.

"I'm. sorry, do I know you?"

"I'm Sofia, your aunt," she said softly. "Your mother's sister."

I blinked. "You're—what are you doing here?"

"I spoke to Maggie. She thought it would be a good idea for us to meet."

We started walking towards the parking lot together. She asked me questions about school, about the library job, about how my transition was coming along. Her sentences were even, paced, almost rehearsed.

And then she said, "You must've heard about your grandmother, Eleanor."

Her tone changed on that name — a flicker of something, maybe sorrow, maybe terror.

"Yeah," I told her. "Suzan said she died. She left me some things."

Sofia's step slowed. "Things? What kind of things?"

"Letters. And a radio. An old one."

She stopped dead in her tracks. For a moment, her face fell out of expression — no smile, no warmth, only cool calculation.

"I see," she said finally, making the smile appear once more. "Yes, she was always… sentimental."

There was something in her tone that rang just slightly false. It was not sadness. It was closer to regret.

I glanced at her profile — the tight jaw, the way she kept shooting looks towards the street.

"Sofia," I asked, "did you really know her well? My grandmother?"

She hesitated. "We… lost touch."

But then, near to muttering, she added,

"I thought she'd burned that thing years ago."

My heart skipped a beat. "What thing?"

Her gaze snapped to mine — large, shocked-looking — like she hadn't meant to say anything.

"Oh, nothing," she rushed on quickly. "Slip of the tongue."

And then she reached out and put her hand on my shoulder, lightly but firmly. "You'd better leave. It's getting late."

And like that, the interaction was over — or was shoved under the ground.

That night, I couldn't help but have her words echoing in my mind:

I thought she’d destroyed that thing years ago.

Not given it away.

Destroyed.

Chapter - 7

I was in my room, radio cradled in my lap, when the sun finally dipped behind the Hayeses’ house.

The room smelled faintly of old books and faint incense from a candle I’d never lit

I turned the dial slowly, the static filling the quiet space.

Then Daniel’s voice came through, calm, deliberate.

"Goodnight, everyone. Tonight's story is from somewhere where memories are tucked away in corners and names are spoken once before disappearing.

A household. A home. A young girl left to find out what was hidden, what was promised, and what was lost."

I came to a standstill. His words felt… off, familiar enough to turn my stomach.

"Things you purposefully leave behind. Things you leave behind by accident. And sometimes, even the things that are meant to protect you from it all can only stand by and watch, powerless, as the world slips away from you."

My hold on the radio tightened. I could have sworn to hearing the weight in the sentence, like they were speaking something I wasn't quite catching yet.

Then the door creaked open.

Ethan. My foster brother.

"What are you doing?" he asked, coming into the room.

His sneakers creaked on the floor. His rumpled hair fell across one eye; his arms were crossed as if bracing himself for something he wasn't prepared for.

I threw my head up. "Nothing," I said, gripping the radio slightly harder. "Just… studying."

Ethan raised an eyebrow, dubious.

"Studying?" he repeated, grinning. "With a radio? In your lap?"

I shrugged, settling back. "Yeah. Studying's boring, anyway. Better this way.".

He didn't push it, though, but hesitated a second, clearly wondering what I was not telling him.

Then saying some remark about going get a snack, he left — door clicking closed behind him.

I exhaled the breath, relief and shame tangled together.

The broadcast continued.

"Sometimes, those that are supposed to guide you are far away. And those who appear closest hold secrets they don't dare share.".

But the signs are there — in letters, in things, in voices that ring out in hollow spaces.

My eye went to the radio.

Sofia's words of yesterday. Daniel's voice. The old letters.

And I finally got it, how everything was so intertwined.