The Library of Lost Memories

Avery had always had a taste for second-hand bookshops, but The Library of Lost Memories was different. Concealed away down gnarled streets lost centuries ago, the building, also, an anachronism. Wood sign swayed gently in the air, lettering barely legible under the grime, worn-out engravings.

Above the doorway, the bell tolled gently as Avery pushed it open. Air clung thick with paper scent, scent of ink, pages turned, turned, turned, turned away. Bookshelves pushed out in every possible way, but these not covered by books, but leather-bound editions, thrumming an otherworldly kind of power. Each one had a name, in gold lettering, across the back.

"Welcome, visitor," greeted them soothingly. Out stepped an old librarian, silver hair cascading down the back of the head, flow of moonlight. Ancient, wistful eyes, full of secrets, creased.

"What is this place?" asked Avery, tracing back the book whose name, gold lettering, lay across it.

The librarian smiled, but there lay sadness there. "It's where lost recollections are. Every book you find here has a piece of an existence—memories recalled, borrowed, lost."

Avery leaned forward further. "Whose recollections are these?"

"Everyone's," replied the librarian. "Possibly even yours."

Shivers crept down the back of Avery's throat. Pounding heart, they combed over bookshelves until one book caught the eye—Avery Caldwell. Their very name, gleaming brightly across the dim candlelight.

Hands shaking, it drew out the book. It opened by itself, pages whispering, as if unseen palm had stroked them. A scene unfolded—a photograph lost in time. A laugh, sound of woman pronouncing name, scent of rain and cinnamon wafting across air. Familiar, alien, it tasted, remembering first line of favorite song while asleep.

Throat constricted, Avery. "I don't remember this."

Librarian's gentle touch settled across the shoulder. "Not every lost recollection need be recalled. Some are lost by reason."

But it could not release it. If this book contained truth, what else had it lost? What had it ever been, before time had taken these pieces away?

"May I remove it?" asked, hardly breathing.

Librarian halted, nodded. "But warned, you must be—when you open one gate to past, you may not want that which enters."

Book clutched tightly against chest, stepped back out into darkness, centuries' worth of remembrances settling across it. Behind it, the library stood, still, doors sighing shut.

Book heavier, it was, than it ought have been. And very, very deep, whispering voice of an overlooked recollection invited, longing to find it.