It sat on the seat across from her, worn leather cover, corners softly rounded from use. Not hers. She didn't remember anyone leaving it.

She picked it up. The leather was warm, almost alive, and the pages were crisp, untouched. No name on the cover. No name on the first page either. She flipped it open, intending to find some identifier, some clue to return it to its owner.

Instead, three words sat in the center of the page, ink dark and fresh, as if written just seconds ago.

don't sign your name.

She looked around the compartment. Empty. The door was still shut. No one had passed in the last several minutes.

Her thumb hovered over the page. It wouldn't hurt to write something back. Just a question. Just one. She pulled a quill from her bag and hesitated, pressing the nib gently against the paper below the mysterious instruction.

The reply came slower than she expected, but the ink bloomed as if conjured from the page itself, looping cursive appearing letter by letter.