Speaker 1: Us was studious the town librarian. The library sat at
Speaker 1: the corner of Maple and Third, a red brick building
Speaker 1: with tall windows that led in the afternoon light. The
Speaker 1: door was heavy and wooden, and it made a sound
Speaker 1: when it opened, not a creek, but a low, satisfied hum,
Speaker 1: as if the building itself was pleased to see you
Speaker 1: walk in. A small brass bell hung above the frame,
Speaker 1: and it rang once, softly every time someone entered. Page
Speaker 1: had hung it there herself years ago when she first
Speaker 1: took over the library. Page was the kind of librarian
Speaker 1: who remembered things, not just the Dewey decimal system or
Speaker 1: the dow dates of overdue books, though she knew those two.
Speaker 1: She remembered that Missus Calloway liked mysteries, but not the
Speaker 1: violent kind, the ones where the detective solves the puzzle
Speaker 1: by noticing a small detail, a misplaced teacup, or a
Speaker 1: shadow that fell wrong. She remembered that old mister Brennan,
Speaker 1: who came in every Tuesday at two o'clock, preferred biographies
Speaker 1: of people who had lived quietly, farmers and teachers and
Speaker 1: postal workers, not presidents or generals. She remembered that the
Speaker 1: teenager who came in on rainy days. The one with
Speaker 1: the green backpack and the headphones around his neck, was
Speaker 1: reading his way through every science fiction novel on the
Speaker 1: third shelf, left to right, one at a time, without skipping.
Speaker 1: She knew them all by name, and she knew them
Speaker 1: by the books they carried. Her library was not a
Speaker 1: large one. It had two floors. The ground floor held
Speaker 1: the fiction and the children's section, with its low shelves
Speaker 1: and its bright carpet, and the small reading corner where
Speaker 1: parents sat with their children on weekend mornings. The second
Speaker 1: floor held the non fiction, the reference books, the local
Speaker 1: history collection, and a quiet room with four arm chairs
Speaker 1: and a window that looked out over the town square.
Speaker 1: People called it the Thinking Room, though Page had never
Speaker 1: named it that herself. Some one had written it on
Speaker 1: a small card and taped it to the door, and
Speaker 1: she had never taken it down. Every morning Page arrived
Speaker 1: at seven thirty, she unlocked the front door, turned on
Speaker 1: the lights, and walked through the stacks, Running her fingers
Speaker 1: along the spines. She checked the return bend first. There
Speaker 1: were always books there left in the slot over night,
Speaker 1: like letters to a friend. She stamped the return date
Speaker 1: on each one, slid them onto the cart, and then
Speaker 1: she began the quiet work of putting them back on
Speaker 1: the shelves where they belonged. This was her favorite part
Speaker 1: of the day, this early hour before anyone arrived, when
Speaker 1: the library was just her and the books and the
Speaker 1: dust motes drifting through the light. At nine o'clock she
Speaker 1: opened the doors. The first person to walk in was
Speaker 1: almost always the same missus Yamata, who came for the
Speaker 1: newspapers and sat in the armchair by the window and
Speaker 1: read every page front to back, including the classifieds, which
Speaker 1: Page thought was either very thorough or very lonely, or
Speaker 1: perhaps both. Missus Yamada never checked out a book. She
Speaker 1: just read the paper and left, and Page never once
Speaker 1: suggested she do otherwise. The library was for everyone, and
Speaker 1: that included the people who came for the newspapers and
Speaker 1: the warmth. By ten o'clock, the library was alive with
Speaker 1: its quiet life. Children arrived with their school groups, sitting
Speaker 1: cross legged on the carpet while Page read them a story.
Speaker 1: She did the voices not dramatically, but with a slight
Speaker 1: change in tone that made each character feel real. The
Speaker 1: dragon was not loud and fearsome, but slow and thoughtful,
Speaker 1: as if it had all the time in the world
Speaker 1: and was in no hurry to be anything other than itself.
Speaker 1: The children loved this. They sat with their mouths slightly open,
Speaker 1: their eyes wide, and when the story ended, they always
Speaker 1: asked the same question, can we hear it again tomorrow?
Speaker 1: And Page always said the same thing, Tomorrow is a
Speaker 1: different story. In the afternoon, the library became a different place.
Speaker 1: The morning light gave way to a softer, warmer glow
Speaker 1: that came through the west facing windows and fell across
Speaker 1: the reading tables in long, golden rectangles. This was when
Speaker 1: the adults came. They came for the quiet. Mostly some
Speaker 1: of them actually read. Others sat at the tables and
Speaker 1: wrote letters, or sketched in note books, or simply stared
Speaker 1: out the window, lost in thought. Page never disturbed them.
Speaker 1: She understood that a library is not just a place
Speaker 1: for books. It is a place for being still, for
Speaker 1: having a room where nothing is expected of you, where
Speaker 1: you can sit with your own mind without anyone asking
Speaker 1: you to explain it. Her most important work happened at
Speaker 1: the reference desk in the back corner, where she sat
Speaker 1: with a computer that she used sparingly and a stack
Speaker 1: of paper records that she used often. People came to
Speaker 1: her with questions, not just where can I find a
Speaker 1: book about gardening? But my grandson is having trouble sleeping,
Speaker 1: is there something I can read to him? Or my
Speaker 1: wife used to love poetry. I want to find the
Speaker 1: ones she liked, or the harder ones, the ones that
Speaker 1: were not really about books at all. I have just
Speaker 1: moved here and I do not know any one, or
Speaker 1: I have lost some one and I cannot sleep. Page
Speaker 1: listened to all of them, and she found them what
Speaker 1: they needed, whether it was a book of lullaby poems,
Speaker 1: or a collection of ocean verse, or simply a chair
Speaker 1: and a cup of tea that she kept in a
Speaker 1: thermos behind the desk for occasions like this. She had
Speaker 1: once said to a friend, I do not prescribe books.
Speaker 1: I listen and then I understand, and then I find
Speaker 1: the right one. Her friend had laughed and said, that
Speaker 1: is exactly what a doctor does page, and Page had
Speaker 1: thought about that for a long time and decided it
Speaker 1: was true. The library closed at six, Page walked through
Speaker 1: the stacks one last time, turning off lights, straightening chairs,
Speaker 1: checking that the windows were latched. She paused at the
Speaker 1: thinking room, where the last reader had left a book
Speaker 1: open on the arm rest, face down, spine bent. She
Speaker 1: picked it up, gently, closed it, and placed it on
Speaker 1: the return cart. The book would go back to its
Speaker 1: shelf tomorrow, and someone else would find it, and the
Speaker 1: story would continue. She locked the front door and stood
Speaker 1: on the steps for a moment, looking out at the town.
Speaker 1: The street lights were coming on, one by one, like
Speaker 1: a row of small, steady promises. A dot barked somewhere,
Speaker 1: a child laughed. The evening was settling in, soft and unhurried,
Speaker 1: and paged stood there in it, letting the quiet fill
Speaker 1: her up, the way a glass fills with water, slowly
Speaker 1: and completely, until it is full and still and reflects
Speaker 1: everything around it. She walked home through the same streets
Speaker 1: she had walked every evening for twenty years, past the
Speaker 1: same houses, the same trees, the same small garden with
Speaker 1: the stone fountain that had not worked in a decade,
Speaker 1: but still sat there, patient and green with moss, as
Speaker 1: if it were waiting for something, or perhaps had simply
Speaker 1: decided that waiting was enough. She liked this walk. She
Speaker 1: liked the way the town felt at this hour, the
Speaker 1: way it settled into itself, the way the lights in
Speaker 1: the windows told stories she would never read but could
Speaker 1: always imagine. At home, she made tea, she sat in
Speaker 1: her chair by the window. She opened a book, not
Speaker 1: because she needed to, but because the day had been
Speaker 1: full of other people's stories, and now she wanted one
Speaker 1: of her own, one that asked nothing of her, one
Speaker 1: that simply held her gently, like a hand in the dark,
Speaker 1: until the words blurred and the book slid closed, and
Speaker 1: she slept