Booger grins. “Miss Wilkins! We were just, uh… appreciating the light techniques.”
“And the shadows,” Burnout adds, too quickly.
“Uh-huh. Well, it’s time to appreciate the exit sign. We’re closing up.”
They groan in unison.
Booger flops the book closed and mutters, “Censorship in action.”
“I’m a librarian, not a censor. You can check outanybook in this place,” I say, walking them toward the front door, “except the one you’re drooling on. That one’s seventy bucks and imported from France.”
Burnout pouts. “There’s nudity in France?”
“There’s also discipline in France. Go emulate that part.”
They laugh and trudge out with their backpacks sagging like overripe fruit. Booger calls over his shoulder, “Night, Miss Wilkins! Tell Miss Peggy she’s hot!”
I lock the door behind them with a dry chuckle. “Absolutely not.”
Suddenly, silence.
The kind that settles into your bones. The kind that sighs through the rafters and whispers,You’re alone again.
I lean against the circulation desk and let my smile drop. Just for a second.
The overhead lights buzz softly. Somewhere, a radiator hisses. I can hear the hum of the Coke machine in the break room and the distant ticking of the grandfather clock in the history nook.
No one left. No one is coming. Just me, my thoughts, and the same old ache in my ribs.
I love this library. But there are nights—quiet, echoing, suffocating nights—where I feel like one of the books no one checks out anymore. Still here. Still full of stories. Just gathering dust.
I push off the counter, muttering, “Alright, drama queen, mop first, existential dread later.”
The cleaning cart squeaks across the tile as I do my final sweep. I pass the children’s section—little chairs neatly tucked under tiny tables—and start toward the bathrooms with the trash bin in tow.
Then the lights flicker.
I freeze.
“…okay.”
I wait.
The lights steady again. Just an old building. Power grid’s always had hiccups. Last winter, the Christmas lights shorted out half the library. I found a charred plug behind the nonfiction section and almost cried when I realized it meltedthrougha biography of FDR.
Still.
Something about this flicker feels… heavier. Like the air thickened for a second. Like the whole building held its breath and then let it out too slow.
“Probably just the wind,” I mutter.
Except thereisno wind inside.
I give the hallway a long look, then shake my head. “Too much coffee. Not enough carbs.”
I keep walking.
Toward the men’s room.
