Only the Bearer Can Read

Suddenly, the pages of the book began to move on their own, as if unseen hands were flipping through them. On the next page, words slowly formed, each letter appearing as though written by an invisible quill. The message struck Kaivan’s chest like a thunderclap:

“I am the reflection of what you do. Everything you speak and act upon is mirrored within me. Whether good or evil, all is revealed without disguise.”

Kaivan froze, his eyes glued to the words. The statement crashed into him like an unseen storm. His body trembled, not from cold, but from the realization that this book was no mere object.

With trembling hands, he closed his eyes, inhaling deeply. When he opened them again, confusion filled his expression. “How could that old woman know about me? How could she possibly have given this to me?” His voice was low, barely above a whisper.

The pages stirred once more, the sound of paper brushing against paper forming a delicate melody that filled the room. Then, more words appeared, elegant yet commanding.

“That old woman knew nothing. It was I who chose you, Kaivan. It was I who shaped the events so you would find me. All of this was planned.”

Kaivan’s heart skipped. The declaration was so direct, so absolute, that it felt like a hand had just torn apart the fabric of his reality. This book didn’t just record events, it orchestrated them. It wielded power far beyond human comprehension, bending fate itself and arranging the flow of time.

Carefully, Kaivan closed the book, his movements slow as though afraid of wounding the entity he now knew was alive. Still, his mind couldn’t stop spinning. Who is it? Why me? And what was the meaning of that dream?

Outside the window, dawn painted faint traces of night across the sky. But within Kaivan’s heart, night had only just begun. He knew, this was the start of a long journey into a world overflowing with mysteries and secrets yet to be uncovered.

Minutes slipped by in silence. At last, Kaivan sat by his desk, setting the book down in front of him with utmost care. His fingers brushed across its strange texture, almost pulsing beneath the wooden cover. With a steadier voice, he finally asked:

“Why did you choose me? And… what are you?”

The response came faster this time, as though the book had grown more comfortable with their dialogue. “I am drawn to living beings with profound emotional and mental depth. I can grant you knowledge of all things involving understanding, prediction, information, or the feelings of living creatures. But one boundary is absolute, you may not ask about my Creator.”

A chill crept down Kaivan’s spine. The book had limits. It wasn’t simply omniscient, it was bound by rules. His thoughts spiraled. Who placed these restrictions? And why was its Creator forbidden to be spoken of?

“Your Creator…” he whispered, almost inaudible. “You mean God, the one who made you? Then… God really does exist?”

The reply slammed onto the page with such force that Kaivan nearly toppled from his chair. “Of course! Without God, how could life exist? But it was not God who created me. When humans say everything ‘just happened,’ that is merely their excuse for what they cannot answer.”

The tone was sharp, even sardonic, yet Kaivan couldn’t stop a small smile from tugging at his lips. There was something strangely refreshing about it, as though he were conversing with an old friend.

“Then… did your Creator choose me?” he asked, this time with newfound courage. His eyes fixed on the blank page as it filled once more.

“Cannot answer,” the book replied curtly, with a casualness that both frustrated and intrigued him.

Kaivan let out a long sigh, resting his chin in his hand. It felt like he was speaking to a mentor cloaked in riddles, one who knew everything yet offered only fragments. But beneath the mystery, he felt something else too, a strange, undeniable bond forming between himself and the book.

The morning sun crept slowly over the horizon, its golden rays slipping through the gaps in Kaivan’s curtains. The soft glow bathed the room in warmth, while the fresh air drifting in through the slightly open window brushed against his face like a tender caress. In the quiet of his bedroom, the world felt achingly serene.

A girl approached, her movements light. Her fingers brushed the book’s surface with careful hesitation, as though afraid of damaging it. When her nimble hand turned the first page, she froze. Every page she flipped was blank, no ink, no words, not even the faintest trace of writing.

“Strange,” she muttered, her brows furrowing. Still, curiosity outweighed her unease. She kept flipping, eager to uncover something hidden within.

“Kai! Kai! Where did you buy this book? I want one like it too!” she chirped, her cheerful voice shattering the morning’s silence.

Kaivan stirred in his sleep, eyelids fluttering open as her voice reached his ears. His vision slowly cleared, only to meet a sight that jolted him awake. His older sister was holding the book, flipping through it carelessly. The calm expression on his face vanished instantly.

“Don’t touch that!” he shouted, panic and anger mixing in his tone. He scrambled out of bed, hair messy, movements frantic, and snatched the book from her hands.

“What’s your problem, Kai? Geez, you’re so uptight.” She pouted, handing it back with clear annoyance. “It’s just an empty book.” With a soft huff, she turned and left the room, leaving Kaivan standing frozen in place.

He stared down at the book in his grasp. Then, something impossible happened. Before his eyes, ink began to bloom across the blank pages. Slowly, words and patterns formed, as though an invisible hand was writing them. Sentences etched themselves into the parchment, filled with hidden weight. Kaivan’s eyes widened, his breath catching.

“So… that’s what you mean. You can only be used by me,” he whispered, his voice tinged with awe and a newfound understanding. A strange bond tied him to the tome now, as though it trusted him alone.

The sunlight grew brighter, spilling across the room. Holding the book tightly, Kaivan rose to his feet and headed to the bathroom. Each step felt heavy, not from his body, but from the questions swirling in his mind. Even as the fresh splash of water touched his skin, his thoughts clung to the tome’s mysteries.

When he returned, refreshed but restless, he sat before the book again. His gaze deepened, and with firm resolve, he opened it once more.