The Library of Never-Read Stories -Raju Musabbir

The evening sky looked bruised with clouds when three friends stumbled upon the old railway tunnel at the edge of town. No trains had run through it for decades, but everyone knew the stories—ghosts, shadows, vanishing voices. That was exactly why the three of them were there.

The first was Cobbles, always carrying a backpack filled with useless things: rusty keys, marbles, bent spoons, and sometimes a sandwich he forgot to eat. The second was Pintle, smaller than the others, with sharp eyes that seemed to see through secrets. The third was Whisk, tall and restless, who never stopped moving his hands as though he was conducting music only he could hear. Together, they were known in town as the kids who poked their noses where no one else dared.

Inside the tunnel, their flashlights bounced against dripping stone. The air smelled of iron and dust. Then Pintle spotted it: a door wedged into the tunnel wall, too smooth and wooden to belong in such a place. Its handle was shaped like an open book. None of them remembered ever seeing it before.

“Bet it’s locked,” Cobbles muttered, but when Whisk touched the handle, the door swung open without a sound.

They stepped into a vast chamber lit by glowing orbs that floated in the air like slow-moving fireflies. Row upon row of shelves stretched upward so high they disappeared into shadows. The books were strange too—some bound in silver threads, some with covers that seemed to breathe, and others whispering faint words as though begging to be read.

A sign hung crookedly near the entrance. Its letters shimmered and shifted until they finally steadied into words the children could understand:

“Welcome to the Library of Never-Read Stories. Open with care. Once begun, a story must be finished.”

Whisk laughed nervously. “It’s a library. What’s so scary about books?”

But as soon as Cobbles pulled a book from the shelf, its cover blank, its pages glowing faintly, the ground shivered beneath them. The words wrote themselves in black ink before their eyes:

“Chapter One: The Lost Wanderers.”

The letters swirled upward, wrapping around the three friends like a windstorm, and before they could scream, they were pulled inside.

When the world steadied again, they were no longer in the library. Cobbles landed with a thump on grass that smelled of smoke. Pintle scrambled to his feet, pointing toward a forest of trees with twisted branches. Whisk groaned, brushing dust from his jacket. Above them loomed a crimson sky where a single moon flickered like a candle.

“This is inside the book,” Pintle whispered.

A figure stumbled out from behind a tree. It was a boy about their age, with silver eyes and ink-stained fingers. “Finally,” he gasped. “Someone came. The story won’t let me leave.”

He explained that he was just an idea, which is an unfinished character, abandoned by a writer who never finished his tale. He had been trapped here, waiting for someone to open the book. Now that they had, the story demanded an ending.

The forest groaned as though it were alive. Shadows crawled along the ground, forming shapes with too many arms and no faces. “The Unwritten,” the boy warned. “They are what happens to ideas that fade before they’re complete.”

The friends had no choice. If they wanted to return home, they had to finish the story. But what was the ending?

They journeyed through the forest, chased by the Unwritten. Cobbles used one of his strange backpack items—an old bent spoon to reflect moonlight into the creatures’ eyes, buying them a few moments. Pintle noticed how paths twisted back on themselves unless one walked while humming. Whisk, always moving his hands, discovered that if he pretended to “write” in the air, the world shifted to match.

Slowly, they realized: they weren’t just characters. They were becoming the authors.

At last they reached a crumbling tower on the edge of the forest. Inside was a giant book lying open on a stone pedestal, its final pages empty. The silver-eyed boy urged them, “Write me free.”

Whisk drew invisible words in the air: “The boy found his home at last.” Immediately, light spilled across the pages, and the silver-eyed boy began to fade, smiling gratefully.

But the Unwritten weren’t finished. They clawed their way into the tower, screeching like broken pens. Cobbles flung everything from his backpack; that means keys that turned into swords, marbles that burst into light, and even the old sandwich that somehow grew into a giant bread wall. Pintle, quick-thinking, shouted, “The ending has to close the door on them too!”

In that desperate moment, Whisk whispered “Bismillah” before writing the final line, trusting that Allah would guide their words. Together, the three shouted, “The story ends, and all that is unfinished sleeps forever, by the will of Allah.”

The book slammed shut with a thunderclap. The Unwritten dissolved into smoke. The tower collapsed into white light, and the children were thrown backward.
They woke up in the library, the glowing orbs swaying gently above. The book Cobbles had opened was back on the shelf, its cover no longer blank but etched with golden words: “The Lost Wanderers Completed”.

The three stared at it, breathing hard.
“Let’s never open another one,” Whisk said.
But Pintle’s eyes glimmered. “Not never. Maybe someday.”

As they left, the door behind them closed with a soft click. Cobbles whispered an ‘Alhamdulillah’ under his breath, grateful that they were safe. But far inside the Library of Never-Read Stories, thousands of other books whispered, waiting for someone brave or foolish enough to begin them.

And the friends knew that once a story calls your name, it’s difficult not to answer.