The bookstore had one rule: never read the last page of a book before buying it. Lena had broken that rule a hundred times. But tonight, the shop was closing forever, and the old owner handed her a thin, leather-bound volume with no title. "You'll want to read the end first," he whispered. She flipped to the final page. Three words: You wrote this. Lena laughed. "I've never written a book in my life." The owner just smiled and pointed to a dusty table in the corner. On it lay a pen, a blank journal, and a photograph of herself—twenty years older, holding the same leather book. "I don't understand," she said. "You will," he said, turning off the lights. "In about two decades. Now pay for the book. It's $10.