What I did notice, after I’d  locked the front door, and wiped down tables, was a worn looking book tucked onto the free reading material shelf.  It wasn’t like anything else there, wedged between the latest Chriton novel, and something cheezy-romanceish. I was sure it had to be lost, rather than left. But, being on the free reading shelf, I didn’t feel much guilt tucking it into my satchel and bringing it home. I could bring it back to work tomorrow, easy.

Pulling it out when I got home, I was even more convinced it was a lost book. It was obviously hand-written, in a flowing caligraphic script…but in no letters I know. Arabic, maybe? There was a symbol, like an elaborate seal or mandala on the front, and a single picture inside. As I turned the pages, my hand seemed to tingle as it came close to the picture. Why?

It had been a long day, and the lettering on the page was hypnotic, almost familiar in a way I couldn’t possibly put my finger on. I must have dazed off, because it seemed I was floating through rolling brown clouds of dust, flying over a strange orange lake. And a woman’s voice…rich, deep, with an unknown accent…alone or together she said. Alone or together. Oh, she said more, but it all faded into the back of my mind. I startled…my arm flung out…I felt my hand hit the book, the strange tingle of the picture, heard a sound, as that tingling spread through my body and became a pull…a streching…I wanted to scream.

And then I was standing. Standing in the picture.

It is too much to recall right now. More later.