Three of the voice-activated lights in the corridor were broken, and the remaining one flickered on and off, like the electrocardiogram of a dying patient.
I knelt down and, with the remaining light, I could clearly see what was at my feet—a black notebook. The cover contained no words or patterns, and felt like some kind of leather I didn't recognize. It was unnaturally cold to the touch, and seemed out of place on the cool October night.
I picked it up.
Who still uses physical notebooks these days? I flipped through the pages and found that the pages were yellowed and exuded a faint scent of ink. The edges were as neat as if they had just been taken out of the printing factory, but the old smell could not deceive anyone. The first page is blank, as is the second page. It wasn't until I turned to the third page that I saw a line of handwritten words:
"Write down your name and you will see how you will die three days later."
The handwriting is so neat that it looks like it was written with a ruler. Every stroke and every stroke is so even that it makes me, a programmer, feel extremely comfortable.
But what really made my back shiver was that the ink on this line was wet.
I pinched my fingertips subconsciously, and the black ink was stained on it, but it hadn't dried yet.
