The Library at the Edge of Dreams
Maya had always been a light sleeper, but lately, she’d been waking at exactly 3:17 AM every night. Not 3:16, not 3:18—always 3:17. Tonight, instead of lying there staring at the ceiling, she decided to follow the strange pull she felt toward her window.
Outside, the familiar street looked different. The lamppost at the corner flickered with a soft purple light instead of its usual harsh white, and where the old bookstore used to be—the one that had been boarded up for months—warm golden light spilled from tall windows.
Maya slipped on her shoes and stepped into the cool night air. The bookstore’s door, which should have been locked and chained, opened at her touch with a gentle chime.
Inside, shelves stretched impossibly high, filled with books that seemed to shimmer and shift when she wasn’t looking directly at them. An elderly woman with silver hair and paint-stained fingers sat behind the counter, sketching in a large leather-bound book.
“You’re right on time,” the woman said without looking up. “The books have been waiting.”
“Waiting for what?”
“For someone to read the stories that only exist between sleeping and waking. Stories that need to be lived, not just read.” The woman gestured to a particular shelf. “Choose one. But remember—once you open it, you become part of the story until dawn.”
Maya reached for a slim volume bound in midnight-blue leather. As she opened it, the bookstore began to fade around her, and she found herself standing in a moonlit garden where flowers sang lullabies and every path led to a different adventure.
When she woke the next morning in her own bed, there was a pressed flower on her nightstand—one that definitely hadn’t been there the night before, and one that didn’t exist in any garden she knew.
That night, she waited for 3:17 AM with anticipation instead of confusion.
source: Claude
prompt: hey Claude, tell me a story