The library is dark at night. No one expects much from a library at night, but this library is quite different. The words flit around the room like fireflies on a summer night. You see, words and books always go together, but words in this library shuffle themselves around in an attempt to make the world make sense. You don't know this though. All you know is that the library has called you, wakened you from a dreamless sleep.

You walk down the darkened street, obsessed with the faint glow that you see in the third story window. What is that light? Why is it glowing? You look at your watch. Midnight. The questions are rapid fire and so loud in your mind that you are compelled to walk across the street. In the shadow of the looming building, you look over your shoulder one last time. The night is clear, but the air is thick. 

The door isn't locked, and somehow you knew it wouldn't be. You have walked these aisles so often that you know them as well as you know the hallways of your own house. The stairs are in the back of the building, a narrow incline, the sounds of your steps echoing against the bare walls. And then you see him, holding a globe of orange light. 

"I've been waiting for you," he says. His voice carries the weight of a thousand lives, and his eyes are bright with the weight of knowledge. 

"Pick a story," he says. So you do. And everything changes.