Novelas y relatos de The History Book On The Shelf Is Always Repeating Itself

I had checked the history section the last time but I didn't know why I wanted to go back again. I drew a book out from the shelf and began flipping through the pages, but nothing of interest caught my eye. I placed the book back on the shelf before I moved to another one, these only contained ledgers of the past and I had absolutely zero use for them. I moved on to the next book which only talked about the various kings and queens of the past and what they had accomplished. I moved through several books but I couldn't find anything to help and I didn't realize that the sun had set, and my eyes were fighting not to close.

I walked toward the shelves, lazily running my fingers across the spines of the books as I scanned the titles. History of Blood Clans. Treaties of the Northern Territories. Ancient Magical Structures. Boring. Boring. Also boring. Who actually reads this stuff for fun? I kept moving along the shelves until one particular book caught my attention. It looked older than the others, the cover worn and faded like it had been opened a thousand times before. Curious, I pulled it out. The moment the book left the shelf, something clicked behind the wall. I froze. “…Okay.”

“Rumour, histories, things passed from mouth to mouth. There are old men who remember things younger men have forgotten. There are witches who keep books with pages that peel. There are hunters who make deals because they are afraid. This is not a secret stitched last night. It is a hunger that grew and rotted into obsession.” The cadence of his voice made the world a different place. He was presenting history as inevitability and not as something that could be stopped. It left my chest tight. The more he spoke, the more I saw people lined up like vultures, each of them counting the cost and imagining how they would change with the sun on their faces. The temptation of sunlight, to feel its

“Their structure is perfect. Too perfect. There’s no friction, no surprise.” Lyra felt it through the Loom that was now a part of her. The stories here were all the same. We stood in the light. We reflected. We waited. There were no conflicts, no dreams, no changes of heart. It was a library with only one book, copied endlessly. “They aren’t suffering. They’re just… repeating.”

I walked toward the shelves, lazily running my fingers across the spines of the books as I scanned the titles. History of Blood Clans. Treaties of the Northern Territories. Ancient Magical Structures. Boring. Boring. Also boring. Who actually reads this stuff for fun? I kept moving along the shelves until one particular book caught my attention. It looked older than the others, the cover worn and faded like it had been opened a thousand times before. Curious, I pulled it out. The moment the book left the shelf, something clicked behind the wall. I froze. “…Okay.”

Closing my computer down, I move around my desk to the table I use for meeting with Pack members. I slowly open the history book and simply inhale the smell of ancient history. That kind of book that tells a story with how many times it has been opened over the years by someone like me, searching for answers that might help us today. It is funny how we always seem to circle back to learn from historical events. I simply hoped that learning would extend to me.

Isadora asked, stepping closer despite the way the light made her eyes ache. “History,” the woman said simply, setting the book down carefully as if it might break. “The kind they don’t teach in the capital’s schools, the kind that gets buried under treaties and celebrations and lies we tell ourselves to sleep at night. It’s the history of why your family sent you here. The real history.”

Ronan left without another word, guitar case banging against his leg as he disappeared into the darkened hallway. Lear stood alone in the empty library, surrounded by books that held centuries of pack history. Stories of love and war and tragedy that repeated themselves generation after generation because young wolves kept believing they'd be the exception. Maybe they would be. Or maybe he was about to watch history repeat itself in the bloodiest way possible.

The illustrations are also hand-drawn, and I have to say that they look pretty good. Like the other book, this one discusses all the Houses and their histories, their mottos. The only difference is that in this book, our House name isn’t one of the first ones. “That’s strange,” I say. I flip over the book and realize that most of the pages are empty. It’s an unfinished volume. Only the first few pages are filled up. “My House is one of the oldest ones. We’re almost at every page of every book in here. We’re always mentioned. But not this one.”