The sun was high in the sky before his eyes even began to flutter. The light poured on him from the open window. The breeze bullied the curtains into compliance as they flung about. When he woke he found that the window he had closed the night before had mysteriously become open over the course of the night. He hadn’t been robbed, because there was nothing missing. In fact, There was something new left behind. A book, ancient and framed in brass. He walked to it and sat on an ottoman. He picked it up and opened it. The papers frail and fragile looked like a leaf in fall; flaking, and if touched they might crumble to pieces. Carefully, he turned the pages to the title page, and where that title page should be there was nothing. Only the very beginning of the paper was there, torn from the book. He continued to read the book, he wasted away hours reading and soon the night returned. As he read, he realized that this story was his. His family, his house, his description, and apparently his killer. It read that today was his last day, today was his last day to live. “This is a joke right?” He questioned. As he spoke the words, The words on the page changed, he scrambled to read it again and it now included his comment. It included his actions, his thought, his fears.  A new paragraph began to form on the page... saying he was being watched right now through the open window. He looked up and saw the shadow. He jumped up and ran to his nightstand to remove his firearm from the top drawer. But, by the time he turned around the shadow was gone and only a note remained. He hurried over to it and opened it. It said, “You have 10 minutes.”