The leather book was heavy, its spine cracked like dried mud, and on its cover, the word was embossed in fading gold leaf.
As the words left his lips, the air in the room shifted. A sudden, sharp breeze swept through the closed window, carrying the scent of wild thyme and distant rain. Ilyas gasped, dropping the book.
With a final, effortful breath, he flipped to the very last page. There was only one short phrase written there, in tiny, delicate script. "Let it go."
Ilyas smiled, closed his eyes, and whispered the words. The glass shattered outward in a silent explosion of light, and when he opened his eyes, the attic was just an attic again, smelling of dust and old paper. The book on the table was blank, its task finally complete.