Ghost in Library

It was nine o'clock in the evening and I was still sitting in the corner of a dark library. The bright neon light above me was dimmed by the line of shelves behind. The magic of book always brought different atmosphere to a room. Sometimes they could bring a torch of enlightenment in the darkest night, but the shadow of old memoirs trapped in the musky yellow papers of antiquarian could also unleash a bleak shade over the blackest midnight. Yet, they were only words engraved by the ink over papers. Still images enveloping the frozen memory.

The bright screen of my laptop shredded a glimpse of white light, covering me in the bright side. Such a contrast. My fingers danced over the keyboard. Clikety clank! Clicking sound echoed in the air, touching every letter on the side of leather bound books over the shelves. Words by words flew from inside the old inscription, possessing my every finger, building a piece of symphony guiding the dance of the hand. The fingers glided gracefully with the still orchestra playing in the shadow of antiquity and musky fragrance.

PING! Suddenly a facebook notification disrupted the music of the words. A glance over the frame showed me a familiar name. A girl I fell in love with for the last twelve years. What a coincidence! She came back in the midst of my still library evening. Yet, she was the embodiment of library itself. I loved her as I explored the very soul of library, caressing every aspect of the shelves, books, scriptures, and inscription.

My mind was drawn back to the lighter library in my childhood. Her library. Yes, she owned a library in her house. A community library built for the sake of her neighbours. I could not help but smiling everytime my feet stepped into that small chamber full of books. Not as complete as public library, but enough to brighten the day of ten year-old boy. For a socially awkward bookworm like me, that face of her represented the desire of social acceptance. No, more like a social zone where bookworm could safely explore himself. The one that will not frown upon a seriousness and passion for books. The first girl with the same passion to talk about new series of novels or comics. A place of comfort.

She introduced me to the musky-chamomile-like smell of antiquarian books. A cup of chamomile tea then became my favourite drink for a quiet evening. With a nice book as a company, I could feel the warmth embrace of that chamber. It was like coming back again to my childhood, along with her smile and touch. Then my mind would reel back the bookish moment we had together. Browsing the antique shelves of her grandfather only to find books or going to the hidden shelves in the old book store. What a memory.

"I'm going to get married!"

Short sentence, but sharp like a knife. It shattered my nostalgia and brought me back to reality. Suddenly the library felt darker and cold, as if its soul and spirit went somewhere. An empty lifeless vessel. An unfinished symphony. My hand grew limp and wet. Suddenly a hole appeared in my chest. For a reason, I know it was hollow, but I could not describe its exact position. Something was missing.

"Congratulation!"

"Thanks!"

She's off.

The library grew bleaker. But my shoulder warmed up. The ghost of library patted and embraced me in stillness. Yes, I still have the books and library.

-Dedicated to University Library and other libraries in Cambridge-