Daren Ashburn’s life was a meticulously crafted labyrinth, its high walls built from habits and rules that guided him safely through his days. At 5:20 a.m., he rose. Not 5:15, not 5:25. His morning routine followed as surely as sunrise: shower, shave, and then steel-cut oatmeal prepared with the precision of a chemist—one-quarter cup of blueberries and half a pat of grass-fed butter, measured to the gram. Any deviation felt like courting disaster.
By 7:00 a.m., Daren left his apartment. Before stepping outside, he watered his bonsai tree, Moe, with exactly half a cup of spring water. Moe wasn’t just a plant to Daren; he was an anchor. Gifted by his boss for his fifth work anniversary, the tree had become a symbol of stability. Years ago, Daren had convinced himself that the tree’s health was linked to his job security. A single missed watering on the morning of his performance review had been enough to solidify the belief: his twenty-cent raise that year—an insult, really—was proof of Moe’s power.
Saturday mornings were Daren’s sole indulgence. He allowed himself an extra hour of sleep, waking at 6:20 instead of 5:20. Everything else about the morning remained the same. His one variation: instead of the northbound train to work, he crossed to the opposite platform and boarded the southbound train to Snelling Avenue. Just across the street from the station stood Wimbley’s Books, a haven of rare and out-of-print treasures.
Daren had spent countless Saturdays among Wimbley’s shelves, intoxicated by the scent of old paper and binding glue. Even the scent of antique books held secrets. Old Mr. Wimbley shared with Daren that the paper used in old books is made of cellulose and lignin. He explained as lignin degrades, it’s converted to vanillin, accounting for the hints of vanilla fragrance. Daren would sometimes dream of that scent.
The shop was a chaotic maze of precarious stacks and forgotten treasures. For Daren, it was the closest thing to magic he allowed himself—a rare, unstructured moment in a world otherwise ruled by self-imposed order.
But this Saturday was unlike any other. A voicemail from Wimbley’s earlier in the week had changed everything: “Your book has arrived.”
The book. Daren’s thoughts had been haunted by it all week. He’d spent years hearing whispered legends about The Gaelic Book of Wisdom, one of the rarest manuscripts in existence. Only three copies were known to survive, and now, one of them was his.
The bell above the shop door jingled as Daren entered. Wimbley, a thin man with sharp features and a permanent air of mystery, looked up from behind the counter. “Ah, Mr. Ashburn,” he said, adjusting his spectacles. “Right on time as usual.”
Daren approached, feeling both exhilarated and slightly nauseous. Wimbley slipped on a pair of white gloves and carefully removed a parcel from the shelf behind him. “I’ve been keeping it safe for you,” Wimbley said, unwrapping a corner to reveal a glimmer of emerald-green leather. “There she is—The Gaelic Book of Wisdom.”
Daren’s breath hitched. “My God, It’s even more beautiful than I imagined.”
“Hmm, and more dangerous,” Wimbley murmured, almost to himself.
The book’s history was as enigmatic as its contents. According to legend, it had been written by an Irish monk who lived amongst the Gaelic druids in the 15th century. Tasked with converting the tribes to Christianity, the monk instead became so fascinated by their traditions that he was the one who was converted. He transcribed their wisdom into an illuminated manuscript, each page adorned with vibrant illustrations and flowing calligraphy. The 365 passages within were said to contain magically profound truths—truths so potent they could actually transform a reader’s life.
But there was another rumor, whispered only among the most hard core of collectors: those who read the book to completion found their lives irreversibly altered. Some claimed the reader would achieve ultimate enlightenment, their soul’s purpose fulfilled. Others insisted the book carried a curse—once the final word was read, the reader’s life would end.
“Mr. Wimbley,” Daren said, his voice barely registering above a whisper, “have you ever read it?”
Wimbley smiled faintly. “No, my boy. In this life some doors are better left unopened.”
The transaction was brief. Daren carefully handed over a cashier’s check for ten thousand dollars—his life savings and a loan against his retirement fund. Wimbley tied the book in brown paper, securing it with twine. “Take good care of her,” he said, his tone almost fatherly.
The train ride home was surreal. Daren cradled the package in his lap, feeling the weight of it—not just the physical heft, but the intangible gravity of its promise.
When he arrived home, Daren locked the door, drew the curtains, and sat at his kitchen table. He opened the package with trembling hands, cutting the twine with his Swiss Army knife. The book’s cover was a masterpiece of craftsmanship, its deep emerald leather embossed with intricate and glistening gold leaf.
As he opened the book, the first passage seemed to glow on the page, the ink shimmering faintly in the light:
“The greatest wisdom is not in knowing, but in unknowing—where possibility lies.”
Daren felt a warmth wash over him, a sensation that was equal parts comfort and unease. He turned the page to the second passage, but a sudden thought stopped him cold. A dark certainty had settled in his mind: the book held the answers he had been searching for, but to finish reading it would mean the end.
That night, Daren made a decision. He would read one passage every ten days, stretching the book’s wisdom across the next decade. By then, he’d be 63. Surely that was long enough to prepare for whatever it was that came next.
But as the days turned into weeks, the book’s pull became unbearable. Each passage unraveled mysteries he never imagined existed. One described the futility of clinging to routine, urging the reader to release control and embrace the unknown. Another spoke of courage, the kind required to step beyond the self-imposed walls. Daren found himself both inspired and terrified.
He began to fear the book even as he yearned for it. Nights became sleepless as his mind raced with countless questions. What if he mistakenly skipped a passage? What if he read two in one sitting? Could he resist the temptation to devour its contents, to chase the truth even if it cost him everything?
The rigidity of his rituals began to falter. One morning, he forgot to water Moe. On another, he missed his train entirely. The walls of his labyrinth were crumbling, and Daren was left wandering through the ruins.
The book was teaching him something profound, though he couldn’t yet articulate it. Fear, he realized, was the true architect of his life.
Every ritual, every rule, every carefully measured action was rooted in anxiety. The book’s lessons challenged him to confront that fear, to let go of the illusions that had kept him safe but stagnant.
The book’s wisdom felt personal, as if it were speaking directly to him. Each passage unraveled another tightly wound thread in the fabric of his carefully ordered life. He found himself questioning things he had never dared to before: Why had he clung so tightly to his routines and rituals? Why did he let fear steer his every decision?
One night, he couldn’t resist skipping ahead. Just one more passage, he told himself, flipping to a page deep within the book. Daren became woozy and there was a noticeable ring in his ears. The words on the page seemed to hum with energy: “When the reader becomes the writer, the cycle is complete.”
Confused, Daren closed the book in frustration. The phrase echoed in his mind as he went about his evening, but its true meaning remained a step ahead of him. That night, his dreams were otherworldly and vivid. He saw himself in a dimly lit room, hunched over a desk, feverishly writing in a book identical to the one he’d been reading.
The next morning, he awoke feeling unsettled but brushed it off. His routine was breaking down, his circadian rhythm disrupted, but he clung to the plan: one passage every ten days.
By the time Daren reached the final pages, he felt like a different man. His bonsai tree, Moe, had withered from neglect. His apartment was cluttered, his rituals abandoned. He felt liberated and terrified in equal measure. The book had undoubtedly reshaped him, stripped him of the crutches he’d relied on for decades.
The last passage loomed ahead. He hesitated, staring at the glowing ink on the page. Could he risk it? Could he bring himself to finish what he started, knowing it might cost him his life?
With a racing heart he took a deep breath and read the final words aloud:
“The greatest truth is not discovered—it is created.”
As the words left his lips, the book began to change. The vibrant ink faded, the pages blanking one by one. Panicked, Daren flipped back through the book, but every page was empty.
Then, he noticed something strange: his hands were smeared with ink. The desk in front of him was no longer bare. A blank book sat open, and beside it, a quill rested in an inkpot.
The realization struck him like a thunderclap. He wasn’t just another reader of the ancient Gaelic Book of Wisdom—he was its next author. The book’s final truth wasn’t about endings but beginnings. The wisdom he sought wasn’t handed down from the past; it was waiting to be written.
A melancholic whisper echoed in his mind, the voice indistinct but familiar: “Your purpose is to create what comes next.”
Daren stared at the blank page before him. For the first time in his life, he didn’t feel the fear of the future, instead he felt the excitement and the freedom it carried. He eagerly dipped the quill into the ink and at long last began to write and to live.
~Eric Vance Walton~
Be well, make the most of this day. Thank you for reading!
(Gifs sourced from Giphy.com)
