The Book of Names

There's a book that remembers every reader who's ever opened it. And last night,

it whispered my name. I found it at an estate sale,

leather-bound, no title. Inside, names were listed in faded ink.

Hundreds of them. Then I saw my grandmother's name, dated the year she vanished.

Below it, fresh and wet, was mine. I tried burning it.

The flames wrote new names. My sister's. My daughter's. The book doesn't

end stories. It collects them. And it's still writing.