Turning Page Novels & Stories

I press my hand to him, trying to get him to stay still. “I can help,” I murmur, fumbling with the heavy book in my lap. He pauses, eyes darting to the old book. His gaze hardens in suspicion but then softens. He recognizes what it is. I flip frantically through the brittle pages. 39… 91… 180… Focus. My fingers finally find the right page and relief washes over me when I spot the illustrations. I place the book next to me and take the bag, searching for the right leaves stuffy stuff. I do not know what. At least the book has pictures in color.

Shania and I decided on Samuel Turner, a marketing manager at Shania's company. Samuel was younger than Lucille and about six years younger than me. I had gotten to know him through a random dinner event in the past. I had formed a deep impression of him because of his good looks and how smart he was at handling all sorts of situations. Later on, I got to know from Shania that he was also very competent at work. He had managed to get his position as marketing manager within a year of joining the company.

I leaned closer. Reading more carefully now. Trying to understand every word. Every line. Every meaning. And then— My hand stilled. Because halfway down the page— It stopped. Not naturally. Not cleanly. Torn. The page had been ripped out. The rest of the spell— Gone. My chest tightened sharply. “No…” I flipped the page. Hoping. Expecting. But the next page— Was different. Not instructions. Not a continuation. Just a single line. Written boldly.

I want to tell you why, because the why is the part I am proudest of. I did not turn around because the turning around was what he was waiting for, and I was not, in that bookstore, in that aisle, on that Sunday afternoon, going to give a man his second favorite gesture from me without first making him understand that I had decided to give it. I kept my eyes on the page. I read one more sentence. Then I said, into the page, in a voice I did not recognize as mine but which was I understood, as I heard the syllables come out the steadiest voice I had used in three months:

The Wrong Vow, My Perfect Match Chapter 120: What the First Page Said The sound of the unlocking click echoed far beyond the Threshold. It moved through the folding horizon. Through the silent Pillars. Through every layer of the dream. A single sound. A single permission. And then the first page turned. Nobody touched it. Nobody stood inside the room. Yet the page moved slowly on its own. As though an unseen hand had been waiting centuries for that moment. The projection sharpened.

No corners bent. He closed his eyes, tracing the gesture in his mind. Left hand pressing down the page. Right thumb and forefinger pinching the corner, gently lifting, flipping it over. Then forefinger and middle finger smoothing the new page flat. Her sleeves would be rolled up, revealing the chilblain scars on her wrists. When she turned a page, her head would tilt slightly down. Her collar would shift to the left. Because her body's center of gravity would shift right as her right hand turned the page, the collar naturally sliding left.

“Then you must look inside. The next page will tell you where.” Isabelle’s heart pounded as she turned the leaf—and froze at what she saw.

“See? I told you. I can’t. This isn’t for me.” “Try again,” Di urged, voice trembling but steady with faith. “Just once more.” I swallowed hard. Fine. One more time. I pressed my palms against the cover and let my mind sink into the silence, into my own pulse. I pictured hinges groaning, pages fluttering. The book shuddered. Heat flared beneath my hands. My eyes flew open. It opened. Pages ripped themselves free, fluttering until one stopped in the center. The world held its breath. My chest hammered so loud I thought the lantern would shatter; the letters on the page pulsed under my palms like a second heartbeat:

I began to move. Slowly at first. My hands glided over my own waist. My hips are rolling with controlled rhythm. I watched his face as I twisted, bending just enough to make him inhale sharply. His jaw tightened. His hands flexed at his sides like he was holding himself back from grabbing me. I turned around, letting him see everything, arching slightly before straightening again. My movements were confident, not rushed. I wasn’t shy. I wasn’t sure. I wanted him focused. Completely distracted.

My eyes moved across the words. The child will not come as we expect. I frowned. I turned the page. There was nothing. I flipped through several more pages. Nothing. Then I remembered the torn page. The journal had been damaged. But the pages weren’t missing completely. I ran my fingers along the spine. Something felt different. I pressed against the leather. A small section lifted. My heart jumped. I carefully pulled at it. A folded piece of paper came loose. I stared at it. Someone had hidden it inside the spine.