I was devastated when Uncle Jack passed away. I remember the idyllic summers my family would spend at his sprawling mansion—my favorite memory being his library.
It was three stories tall with countless wooden shelves stocked with endless books.
One day I’d read the quiet musings of a humble accountant, and the next day I’d read about the troubled life of a drug-addled rock star.
I would become so immersed in the lives of these characters that they felt real. After all, that’s what a good book does to you, right?
Mother and I went to visit his estate to pay our respects to Aunt Lizzie. She proceeded to bore Aunt Lizzie with her dull voice so I left to peruse the library—for old time’s sake.
One book in particular caught my eye.
The protagonist’s name was Allison—just like me.
She was blonde with a crooked nose and green eyes—just like me.
She was born in Ohio, but raised in Michigan—just like me.
She wished her father was still alive to protect her from her mother... *just like me*.
The similarities were hard to ignore.
With trembling hands, I flipped to the last pages of the book:
*“…Allison was horrified with her shocking discovery.
Do these books in her uncle's library chronicle the actual events of real people? Does this book hold her fate?
Filled with curiosity, she skipped to the end to catch a glimpse of her demise but was interrupted by her scheming mother…”*
“Allison,” Mother called sternly, “...time to leave.”
I slammed the book shut.
The beat of impending doom grew louder.
Only *one* page left.