The astronaut removed her helmet long before mission control said it was safe. The building stood exactly where no building should. No roads. No landing beacon. Just a weathered wooden library beneath a violet sky. She pushed open the door. A bell chimed. An elderly librarian looked up from her desk. "You're late." "I think you've mistaken me for someone else." "I never do." The shelves stretched farther than the eye could follow. Every book carried the name of a living person. She found hers without help. The pages described her childhood perfectly. Her first love. Her failures. Her launch. The final chapters were blank. "How does it end?" she asked. The librarian smiled. "That's why we leave the last pages empty." Mission control's frantic calls echoed faintly through the doorway. She hesitated. "If I stay here, can I read everyone else's story?" "You could." "And my own?" "Only after you've finished writing it." She closed the book. When she stepped outside, the library was gone. Back aboard the lander, doctors questioned her for weeks. Scans showed nothing unusual. She never mentioned the blank pages. Instead, she began saying yes to invitations, calling old friends, and taking long walks without checking the time. She had spent years searching the stars for answers. Instead, she'd been handed a better question. What would she write next? In the end, the truth turned out to be much quieter than she expected.