Magnolia Terrace

I grasped a book that caught my attention on the higher shelf, a book worn with faint calligraphy writing. I walked over to another table by the railing overlooking the first floor and pondered how long it would take to read every single book in the library. It would take a lifetime, I thought. The smell of roses suddenly perfumed the air overpowering the thick smell of old books. I looked around and walked through the aisles in search of the source. Someone brought roses for a librarian, I assumed. A lover, a husband, or a secret admirer, but I didn’t see roses anywhere. At that moment I expected the smell had come from an automatic air freshener, but the smell was too fresh. “My child, you seem lost.” I heard a man speak while I stood in the aisle observing the books on the shelves. I gazed around and there was no one behind me or in front of me. There was no one anywhere that I could see. The librarians had disappeared as well as if they’d vanished into the air. I walked back toward the table and placed my backpack and the book on the chair. Librarians do that. They disappear. Then they mysteriously appear out of nowhere like some magic trick to which they are obliviously habituated. “You came here for a reason, my child. You’ve been looking for something and you found it. You don’t see it because you’re not looking hard enough.” “Is someone talking to me?” I glanced around again, but I didn’t see anyone. “You come to this library often. I’ve been, well, floating around this god-forsaken place for let’s see ninety years, more or less now. Oh, I don’t know. I have lost track. What year is it? I’m not the only one you know.” The man suddenly appeared, in a top hat and a sharp black suit like a character out of an old book a librarian had carelessly dropped. He patted his pockets looking for his gold pocket watch. “I can’t seem to find it. No matter. Of course. You’re not the only one. A lot of people come here. You still don’t understand, do you?” he said, and laughed. “Are you talking to me? Are you homeless? I don't have any money—” “I don’t want your money, child.” He chuckled. “I’m not homeless, and I certainly don’t expect you to understand. It’s not every day that you encounter the dead and strike up a conversation.” “Dead? Are you a ghost?” I asked. I didn’t know whether to grab my backpack and run or yell for help. “My dear child, when I first saw you, I thought I’d seen a ghost,” the man said as he laughed.