Then she flipped the sign on the door to “Open” — after that, there was nothing else she needed to do except sit and enjoy a cup of coffee with a book on her desk while waiting. This was her favorite part of the day. It was dead quiet and empty and she was free with some private moments of her own before her colleagues and visitors started coming in.

She had always liked the quietness and the seriousness of the library patrons, who were deeply absorbed in their own worlds. Looking at them made her feel like she was listening to multitudes of worlds humming in a synchronized beat that flowed in a shared stream of consciousness.

Yet another reason to love her job.

She imagined herself as one of those gorgeous stewardesses with her hair all tied up, not a strand out of place, and a perpetual bright smile on her face. Welcoming every patron aboard, she would make sure they had all they needed to feel comfortable on their journey.

People of all kinds, books of all genres. It was a small public library, for sure, old and a bit outdated, the collection of books had not grown any larger since it first opened. But she still liked it here.

When was it again? It should be around twenty-one, no, twenty-three years ago. That sounds about right.

How many dreams had gone forgotten, how many chances were overlooked, just like all the times she had mopped the floor and kept forgetting about the dents and scratches on that spot.

She remembered a surging joy that welled up inside her when he proposed to her.

“I can give you all the world,” he said, arms around her shoulders. “And I’ll bring you to places you’ve never been before. I’ll buy you food you’ve never tasted in your life. See? Even the sun will send its light just for us.”

In her eyes, back then, he was her Zeus — her Romeo, her Don Juan.

Then, Emily was born. Her precious, lovely Emily. When the baby wrapped her small fingers around her thumb, her whole world shifted like a planet changing its orbit the moment it got hit by a giant asteroid.

But, of course, he didn’t give her all the world and the sun didn’t shine just for the two of them. Sometimes she even had the feeling the sun had ignored them completely. Money is a problem for someone who wishes to have the world. Meanwhile, her husband was becoming more of a distant star in a stranger’s universe and maybe that’s why she didn’t feel entirely unprepared when she came home one day and found him, in their shared bed, in the arms of another woman.

She didn’t scream at him, or throw a tantrum. Instead, she did what felt natural to her: she closed the door, packed her bags, and removed herself — and her daughter — out of the house.

“It’s just you and me now, baby girl. Don’t you worry though, Mama’s going to give you the world.”

The baby cooed happily in response.

Then, one day, Emily fell ill. Pneumonia, the doctor said. Within a week, she was gone.

At the funeral, she stood in silence, watching closely as they lowered her baby into the ground. She remembered thinking how small the coffin looked, and she cursed herself for forgetting to pack Emily’s favorite pink stuffed bunny inside the coffin. Where had she left it? The kitchen counter? In Emily’s crib? Doesn’t matter. She’d just have to remember to bring it next time. Then, she caught herself mid-thought. There wouldn’t be a next time. Suddenly, she felt her entire body turn cold.

She didn’t cry throughout the whole funeral, but anybody who saw her could tell she was not coping well with her grief. Her friends opened their arms and offered her a place to stay, at least for a little while, but she insisted that she was fine. All she needed was some time alone, she told them. So she went home, locked the door and sat beside the now empty crib for hours, until the sun came up.

The next day, as per usual, she showed up for work at the library at 8 a.m. The head librarian told her to go home — there was no hurry to come back to work, everything else could wait — and that she needed to take care of herself first before thinking about getting back to work. He also told her to mind her priorities. He was kind and she was grateful for it. But she didn’t need to be home. She was fine, she told him, looking at the head librarian straight in the eyes. She tried to say it as politely as possible, but she also wanted him to know she was serious.

There was no getting through to her, really. The head librarian saw what everyone else saw — she was not fine; she was pale and without much spirit. When he looked at her, it was like looking at a shadow rather than a living, breathing human being. He couldn’t put his finger on it, though. It just didn’t feel right. There was an air of peculiar detachment about her, as if they didn’t exist on the same plane of reality.

Somehow, the head librarian later thought, she no longer belonged to the same world he and everyone else were living in. But how could he explain this?

Still, he decided not to let her go. And years went by until she slowly morphed into a shadow behind tall bookshelves, tracing her hopes through the stories and the imaginary worlds she had once promised Emily.

She buried herself in books, a place she was most comfortable living in. She followed the journeys of many characters, from Padua to Tokyo to New York — she wanted to show Emily all the different places she would never see; the stories she would never hear; the people she would never meet.

Then, one day, a grey tabby cat mysteriously waltzed into the library. It was weak and shivering from the cold. She took it in and that was how they became each other’s companion.

So it was that she went through her days in silence, a resolute existence blurred by the intervals of consolation.

Enough time had gone by before the arrival of the letter. The library was to be shut down by the end of the month.

**

The day dragged along languidly. Around noon time, a girl with sleek hair and bright eyes stood in front of the library, her eyes were searching for something that wasn’t there.

The girl went in and greeted her with a soft and joyful giggle. There was a hint of indescribable familiarity about the girl, a particular remembrance that was buried in a pile of old memories.

“Good afternoon,” said the girl.

“Good afternoon. What can I help you with?”

“I have a gift for you,” the girl whispered, her eyes gazing expectantly at her.

“A gift?”

“Yes, a gift for you. I bet this is the last time we’ll see each other. Of course I’ll miss you, but that’s how life is. You can’t just expect everyone to be together all the time. It just so happens that I need to go somewhere else, and maybe you’ll stay, maybe you won’t. Either way, I want to give you a parting gift.”

She stood there waiting, not sure how to respond to such a statement. But maybe this world is a strange one.

The girl took out a notebook that looked more like a leather journal.

“This is for me?”

“Yes, it’s yours. I collected them for you. Go ahead and take a look at it.”

She opened the journal and saw scribbles that seemed almost magical with a hint of childishness in the way they were written. She saw that they were notes of made-up stories she used to tell herself when she was all alone… with the sleeping cat on her lap.

She looked at the girl with a new understanding: “I see. So I guess you won’t stay then?”

The girl smiled and shook her head. “Thanks for all the care. You know, it’s really time for you to just up and go to those magical places that you’ve been dreaming of going to, since, like, forever.”

“I see.”

“Goodbye.”

The girl nodded at her for the last time before she turned away and slipped out through the door. After the girl was gone, she flipped through the pages. She realized how all those magical places wouldn’t wait forever. It was really a matter of believing or not believing. And much the same way that she believed, she would make them come true now.

When the evening finally came and the last of the lights were switched off, she threw one last glance at the place that had been a part of her life for as long as she could remember... and smiled.

Now she would go to bigger, bolder and more magical places.

***

Feliciana is an Indonesian writer. This is her first short story for The Jakarta Post.

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We are looking for contemporary fiction between 1,500 and 2,000 words by established and new authors. Stories must be original and previously unpublished in English.

The email for submitting stories is: shortstory@thejakartapost.com

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