Soft breaths, pages turning, computers humming like bees and words whispered. The sounds of life, and those conjured by my imagination: the rustling of leaves and crashing waves, birds chirping as I walk through the aisles of books, their songs a source of inspiration. I expect to see wings out of the corner of my eye, to feel a rush of wind as something flies by. Nothing ever does, but that doesn’t stop me dreaming, feeling the softness of feathers beneath my fingertips when I trace the spine of a book. 

A sense of belonging inhabits this space. Not for me. Every book, seat, and table has its designated spot on the map of this land. Even when we use them, they are moved with the certainty that we will return them to their rightful places. In that way the library is like a pond; now and then something sends ripples through the water but eventually, the surface will smooth out again. 

The elevator raises me to the stars, bright and dizzying, and I can’t imagine it going any direction but up. The library operates in methodical order, and I comply by finding another way down. I walk through the maze of books until I find the staircases hidden in the back, a grey echoing space. It’s no surprise that the library tucks this part of itself away. Standing here, solitude is a physical presence, pressing down without suffocating me. Comforting like a weighted blanket draped over my shoulders. I look up to see white sky above, a hypnotising light at the end of the tunnel. Creatures hide in the cave’s shadows but pose no threat. Like me, they are wanderers, scouting for hidden treasures and finding solace in the cool stone walls. 

After hours of losing myself in the tangled woods of the library, it is a comfort to come home to my small collection of books. Like a tiger slinking into the shadows after lying in the sun all day, or a deer returning to the same lake to drink, the sight refreshes me, puts me at ease. The library is a place of endless mysteries, but my books hold no secrets, only warm familiarity. I can never hope to touch every leaf in a forest, but I have held and read and loved each of these stories, my private garden of knowledge.