I run up the stairs two at a time, my heart pounding with excitement and curiosity.
"Calm down, Rika!" I tell myself as I push open my bedroom door. The familiar scent of wood and the soft glow of light wrap around me. I set my backpack gently on the floor, though my hands tremble with anticipation.
I place the book, with its peculiar cover, on my desk and admire it for a moment like a mysterious object full of surprises. But just before I open it, the smell wafting up from the kitchen reminds me that I still have to go down for dinner. My stomach growls, protesting at having been forced to wait.
Still, I can't stand the curiosity any longer — it feels like the book is calling to me. I can't resist. I step closer and take it into my hands.
"Just a quick look," I decide out loud, almost as a warning to myself.
I set the book on my bed and try to open it carefully, but the clasp resists, as if it has a will of its own. My fingers trace along the cover, looking for a way to undo the lock, but it's as if the book doesn't want to be revealed so easily.
I try to open it again, but the clasp refuses to budge. I frown and push harder, feeling frustration start to rise. "Come on, please…" I mutter, as if my words could make the book cooperate.
I decide to try a different approach. I pause, glance around my room as if searching for something that might help me open it, and take a deep breath. Maybe the problem isn't just the clasp—it's my attitude. I sit cross-legged on the bed and place the book beside me.
My fingers brush over the cover again, this time gently and slowly. I close my eyes and focus. Instead of struggling, I imagine I'm talking to the book—starting to feel it as something, or someone, I'm asking to open up.
"I know you have incredible stories inside you…" I whisper, almost pleading. "I want to hear them."
Just as I open my eyes, I hear a soft click. My eyes widen instantly. Did I hear that right? I hurry to look—and to my surprise, the clasp is now unlocked. "Yes!" I exclaim, almost shouting with joy. Without thinking, I open the book carefully, feeling a cool breeze flow from its pages, as if it had been trapped inside for centuries.
The pages creak as they open, and for a moment, I feel as though I've discovered a portal to a new world. However, when I look down at the pages, my excitement vanishes at once. They're completely blank.
My heart sinks in my chest as I flip through the pages with trembling fingers, hoping to find at least a single word—an image—something that proves I'm not dreaming. But there's nothing. Every page is utterly empty.
"What does this mean?" I whisper to myself, unable to understand. I feel disappointed and confused. I'd expected so much. I thought I'd find stories full of ghosts and adventures, and instead, all I see is an overwhelming emptiness.
I rub my eyes, convinced that maybe—just maybe—the magic is hidden somewhere. Maybe it needs a little more time to reveal its stories. "Come on, where are your secrets?" I murmur, almost begging the book.
But the pages remain blank. Frustration begins to bubble inside me. Why won't the book return the curiosity I offered it? It's as if it's draining my hope instead.
With a deep sigh and one last glance at the book, I leave it on my desk. I'll figure out what to do with it later. I step out of my room, feeling a little discouraged. Maybe a good bowl of that chicken broth will lift my spirits.
As I cross the doorway, a sudden rumble shakes the air. Thunder echoes outside, reverberating through the walls of the house. I freeze in place, staring toward the window.
"What was that?" I whisper, frowning. Outside, everything looks normal. It doesn't even look like it's going to rain. I can see the neighbors walking down the street, unaware of any storm. I shake my head, deciding it's probably just my imagination playing tricks on me. No reason to overthink it.
I head downstairs, the aroma stronger than ever. I walk toward the kitchen, hoping a good meal will help me forget my frustration over the empty book. My mother is at the stove, serving steaming noodles into a large bowl.
"All set, Mom," I say, setting my worries aside as I sit at the table. The warmth of the room wraps around me like a comforting hug.
"Perfect, Rika," she replies with a smile. "Your bowl's ready—be careful, it's really hot."
I nod, my stomach giving a quiet growl of approval. I hadn't even realized how much I'd been waiting for this moment.
As my mother sits across from me with her own bowl, I take advantage of the calm atmosphere to ask, "Hey, did you hear that thunder a moment ago?"
She looks at me, a bit puzzled. "Thunder? I didn't hear anything."
I frown, feeling the chill crawl back up my spine. I was the only one who'd heard that rumbling thunder. "Are you sure? It was really loud."
"Maybe you're just tired," she suggests, shrugging as she starts to eat. The calm in her voice only deepens my confusion.
The steaming food in front of me smells amazing, making me forget the topic. I grab the spoon, and the warmth of the broth spreads through my hands as I bring it to my lips.
"This is delicious!" I exclaim without thinking. The flavor is pure comfort.
She smiles, her eyes shining with satisfaction. "I'm glad you like it, Rika."
As I keep enjoying the soup, my mind drifts away from the frustration with the book. Each bite is full of warmth and flavor, and I begin to truly relax. Still, a part of me can't help but question what happened back in my room.
"Hey, Mom," I say while taking another sip of broth, "do you think objects can have a life of their own? Like… deciding who gets to use them?"
My mother looks at me, her expression hiding a curious smile. "That's an interesting question, Rika. Some people believe things have a special energy—especially old objects. Why do you ask?"
"Oh, just curiosity," I answer with a nervous laugh, waving my hand as if to chase away an invisible fly. I glance down at my bowl. "It's just an idea I had… maybe some objects hold stories, like they're waiting for someone to uncover them."
My mother tilts her head, thoughtful. "Yes, I think so. People tend to associate certain objects with important moments or emotions, so I guess, in a way, they do hold stories."
I smile at her answer. My mom never avoids my questions, no matter how strange they are. After years of me bombarding her with questions about ghosts, curses, and unexplainable phenomena, I suppose she's used to my curiosities by now.
I finish my bowl of soup, feeling the comforting warmth fill my stomach. I silently thank this peaceful moment, but my mind still drifts back to the mysterious book lying on my desk.
"Thanks for dinner, Mom. It was delicious," I say with a smile.
She nods and smiles, pleased that I enjoyed it. I quickly wash my bowl before saying goodnight and heading back upstairs.