Last night, I found myself in a vast library with towering bookshelves that stretched infinitely into the sky. The air smelled of old parchment, and a soft golden light illuminated the aisles. As I picked up a random book, the words rearranged themselves into a story about my own future—things I hadn't lived yet but felt strangely familiar. A librarian with no face handed me a key and whispered, "Not all knowledge is meant to be read." I turned to ask what they meant, but they had vanished. Then, the floor beneath me began shifting like puzzle pieces, leading me toward an unknown door…
