The Town that waits

The bus hissed to a stop at the edge of town, its headlights catching the mist that curled low across the fields. Mara stepped off, clutching the strap of her worn bag. The houses looked different here—too neat, too polished—as if someone had painted them into place.

She walked down the main street, past a diner that smelled faintly of coffee and grease, past a row of shops that all seemed to close at the same time. People moved with purpose, smiling at one another, but their eyes slid past her as though she were invisible.

A bell chimed in the town square. Everyone turned, perfectly synchronized, and began to gather. Mara hesitated, then followed, curiosity pressing against her unease.

The mayor stood on the steps of a grand hall, speaking words that sounded rehearsed, almost mechanical. Applause rippled through the crowd like a wave—except from Mara. She stood frozen, the only still figure among the moving, clapping mass.

And then, the words slipped from her lips before she even realized she was speaking.

“I don’t belong here.” I don't belong here.“

The crowd’s applause stopped at once. Every head turned toward her, eyes blank and waiting. The silence pressed in heavy and suffocating.

Mara’s heart raced. For the first time since she’d arrived, she understood: this town was not a place one stumbled into. It was a place one was absorbed by. And if she wanted to remain herself, she would have to find a way out—before the town decided otherwise.

The silence that followed Mara’s words was suffocating. She could hear her own breath rasping, harsh against the stillness of the crowd. Every face was turned toward her now—blank, expectant, eyes glassy like dolls propped upright.

The mayor’s smile faltered for the first time. “You do belong here,” he said softly, voice carrying in the hush. “You’ve always belonged here.”

Mara shook her head, clutching her bag tighter. “No. I just arrived. I took the bus—”

But when she turned to gesture behind her, the street was empty. No bus. No tire marks in the wet dirt. No sign of how she’d come at all.

Her mouth went dry, lost for words and feeling uneasy.

The crowd shifted closer, their movements perfectly aligned, like a single organism tightening its circle.

Mara backed away. “Stay back.”

The mayor raised a hand, and the crowd stopped. “You don’t understand yet,” he said, his voice almost tender. “This town is sanctuary. Outside, there is nothing. You don’t need to leave. You can stay. You can belong.”

Mara’s heartbeat thundered in her ears. She thought of the map she had studied before she traveled here, the way this town’s name hadn’t been printed clearly, only a faint smudge along the paper. She thought of how the bus ride had seemed endless, the driver silent, the windows showing only shadowed fields.

“What happens if I refuse?” she asked, though her voice trembled.

The mayor’s smile returned, but it was colder now. “Then the town decides for you.”

The bell in the square rang again, though no one touched it. The people’s faces twitched, their expressions breaking into identical, too-wide smiles.

Mara’s instincts screamed. She turned and ran.

Down an alley. Past the diner with its flickering neon sign. Past houses whose windows all blinked alight at the same time, as if awakened. No matter which street she chose, the town seemed to fold back in on itself, leading her again and again to the square.

The crowd was waiting each time. Patient. Unmoving. As if they knew the outcome.

At last, gasping, she pressed herself against the wall of the old library. The door creaked open on its own, inviting. She slipped inside.

Dust hung heavy in the air. The shelves were lined with books, but their spines bore no titles. When she pulled one free, the pages inside were not blank—each one contained her handwriting. Memories she’d forgotten. Moments she didn’t remember living. Pages of her life that had not yet happened.

Her fingers trembled as she read the line written at the very bottom of the open page:

The town always gets what it wants.

And beneath that, the final words:

You will never leave.

Mara slammed the book shut. Outside, the bell rang again.

Mara clutched the book to her chest, her pulse racing. The words inside burned in her mind: You will never leave.

Footsteps echoed outside the library—hundreds of them, perfectly in step. The door groaned as it began to open.

“No,” Mara whispered “I don’t belong here”. Still convincing herself she bolted deeper between the shelves, searching for a back door, a window, anything. But the farther she ran, the more the aisles seemed to stretch, folding endlessly into one another.

The shelves whispered as she passed, pages fluttering though there was no wind. Every book she glimpsed bore her name on the cover. Every page was her life, her choices, her fears. Each ended with the same words.

You will never leave.

The footsteps stopped. The silence pressed in again.

Then the mayor’s voice filled the library, gentle but inescapable. “You already belong here, Mara. You always have. Say it, and it will be easier.”

Her throat tightened. She wanted to scream, to deny him, but the words tangled in her chest. The books around her began to hum softly, vibrating with a low, mournful sound, like the town itself was breathing.

Mara staggered back, covering her ears. “I don’t belong here!” she shouted, her voice breaking.

For a moment, everything stilled.

Then the books snapped shut in unison, the sound like a thousand doors slamming at once. The lights above flickered—and went out.

When they came back on, Mara was standing in the town square again. The crowd encircled her, smiling. The mayor’s hand rested gently on her shoulder.

“Good,” he whispered. “You’ve finally arrived.”

And as her voice joined the crowd’s eerie, perfect harmony, Mara felt the last thread of her resistance unravel.

She understood then.

She belonged.