I stumbled upon Bellmere while trying to escape a broken GPS signal and a mind even more lost. The sign was faded, the road cracked, and yet — something called to me. A ghost town, quiet as sleep.

I wandered through abandoned shops until I saw a rusted building marked “LIBRARY.” Inside, there were books older than time, untouched by dust. It smelled like memory and ink. In the back, a journal lay open:
"We are not forgotten. We chose to be lost."

Every page chronicled life in Bellmere — names, births, lovers’ quarrels, secrets of people who had once chosen to vanish from the world. Each entry felt alive, as though the town was whispering to me.

I left the next morning. No one believed my story. Bellmere isn’t on any map, not on Google, not in old registries. But sometimes, when the wind is just right, I still smell that paper, still hear those pages turning.

And I know Bellmere is still watching.