The Archive of Almosts

"Lune."

The name fell with clipped precision, heavy with a Parisian accent. Outside, the sun was bleeding into the horizon, streaks of gold and bruised purple reflecting across the library floor as the pale moon peeked through the haze of colors. At the end of the executive desk, a woman shuffled through various documents, sometimes pausing only to type at the keyboard of a large computer.

On her chest, a badge read Louise. Her thin, overlined lips flattened as she reached for the printout invitation once again.

Louise's gaze arrested instantly on that crude feather insignia and the sharp B. initial beside it for the third time now. Her fingers tightened on the paper, the page bowing under the sudden force of her grip. Her throat tightened, bobbing a sharp gulp. Then, with a deliberate exhale, she dropped the paper onto the desk, subtly smoothing out her features as if wiping away a chalkboard.

"A chosen applicant. Lucky, aren't you?" Her smile could not fully reach her eyes as she tucked a strand of dark grey hair behind her ear. "I'm glad you accepted our offer."

Paintings of swarthy birds lined the narrow walls, silently staring down at the unfamiliar presence.

"Thank you for having me," Lune replied, her dull gaze drifting to a silver picture frame on the desk. In it, a slightly younger version of the woman smiled warmly next to a pre-teen girl, probably family, with the same high cheekbones. They looked genuinely happy. Close.

Following her gaze, Louise took a slow, deliberate sip of her Earl Grey, then set it down with a soft clink. "Hm."

She reached out with two manicured fingers, quietly turning the silver frame a few degrees, angling the memory back to herself before smoothing her collar.

"You know, we don't usually send invitations." She paused, tilting her head. "What made you accept?"

Lune's jaw tightened. Of course, she had found it strange. She had stared at the email for an hour, rereading the ornate script, wondering if it was a scam or a mistake. But the address was real. The library's letterhead was real. And the alternative appeared worse than the risk.

"I needed a job," the words scraped past her lips. "And I figured... if an opportunity went through the trouble of finding me, maybe I should find out why."

Louise's expression remained unreadable.

"And did you?"

Lune met her gaze.

"I haven't yet."

A beat of silence settled. Louise smiled again, then straightened, the long lines of her skirt catching the dim library light. "How poetic. Well then. Let's see if we can help you with that." She gestured for Lune to follow. "Come along."

The young woman stood up, following the head librarian who moved through the space like a model on a runway instead of the mundane room reserved for interviews and résumé verifications. She followed closely, eyeing the Louboutin heels clicking in coordinated steps across the marble floor.

Large, polished double-hung windows welcomed different hues of pink and coral, the sunset spilling softly across the opulent room. The gentle beam painted a delicate swath of pastel colors across the library's furniture and cast a warm glow over the dust particles suspended in the air. Lune gazed around, her arms slightly shivering. There were infinite floors and never-ending bookshelves of different genres. She almost felt like she had entered a maze with an impossible exit.

Vintage Kit-Kat clocks adorned the off-white papered walls that probably needed an additional layer of paint over the tarnished one. Students in similar navy blue and white uniforms populated the space, each wearing tired yet concentrated expressions.

Louise suddenly stopped in her tracks, and so she followed suit. A lingering smell of old books, almost nostalgic, and faintly scented smoke caressed her nostrils.

"This will be your entire section," she announced, her fingers pointing at subsections. "From there to here."

L.A2334.48 to LJ6722.73

Poetry.

Philosophy.

Literary Arts.

Lune read, chin tilted up. These were her three assigned subsections. For the time being, that is. She felt her stomach churn, a slight dizziness taking hold of her vision. The letters danced and blurred together, seeming to form symbols, drawings, and finally settled into one coherent sentence: Wake up before you lose yourself!

The words on the sign swam, reformed, and shimmered, looking almost wet, before they dissolved into a blur of ink. A strange sense of déjà vu laced her pulse. She pressed her palm to her temple, breathing through the familiar twist of a headache's pain after a sleepless night. A bitter, humorless huff escaped her. Lose herself? She was already halfway there. Her eyes narrowed into flint, shoving the feeling away.

"No kids in this area," a bony finger suddenly entered into her line of sight, gesturing toward the low couches clustered near a large window. "They ruin the couches with crayons and grease them up with their dirty fingers."

"... Right."

Louise continued, showing Lune around and explaining the various tasks expected of an assistant librarian. Her heels continued to echo in the silent parts of the library, guiding her towards the last nearby section: philosophy.

Verbatim accounts, biographies, and tomes from renowned philosophers lined the shelves, each marked with the library's official label of possession: The Marrow Hill Library on Avenue NW, Ontario, Canada. M.H.L for short. Louise's movements expanded as she spoke, almost like she faced a movie theatre's crowd instead of explaining the job to a new hire.

A dark feather followed its slow dance in the air before settling on a flat cover. Lune's eyes followed it until it snagged on a slim, worn volume lying clumsily on top of a shelf: The Art of Responsibility. Somehow, the title felt like a sudden, cold draft. Her mother's voice suddenly echoed in her memory: "You run away from everything, Lune! That's your only talent."

She blinked again, and the moment was gone, just another ghost in this house of books, nestled in her headache.

"Damn it..." she mumbled imperceptibly, a hand coming up to scratch the side of her scalp.

"That's pretty much it," Louise concluded, her voice cutting through Lune's thoughts once again. "You'll get used to it. You can always go to the receptionists at the main hall or your coworkers if you're really stuck," she somehow reassured, keeping herself out of the options.

Lune nodded, thanking her politely. She noticed the woman gaze at her watch despite the countless clocks around. Her red lips pressed back into a thin line, her manicured finger tapping rhythmically on her clipboard as her gaze pinned Lune in place.

"Oh, there's one more thing," she said finally, her accent sharper than usual, irritation curling at the edge of her words. She pinched the bridge of her nose, sighing. "We sort of have... a little problem here."

Lune leaned forward slightly, brow quirked.

"Some pranksters, probably," Louise sighed, rolling her eyes, "have taken to leaving empty or half-empty paper, heck sometimes even books, dispersed across the library."

"Empty?" Lune echoed, her voice low, curious.

"Yes. Either completely blank or total gibberish," Louise shook her head, a dry, humorless laugh escaping her lips. "I mean, can you imagine? Honestly, you have to admire the dedication it takes to keep this up so consistently." She let out a heavy, deflating sigh. "Regardless, clearing up their garbage is just part of the job description at this point."

"That's rather... strange," Lune replied, unsure whether to ask more. "And how do you handle it?"

"If one appears on your shelves, you'll have to take it downstairs. There's an old, unused archive in the basement. That's where we put them for now."

Lune slightly frowned at the oddity issue, letting Louise take the lead again. She could sense the librarian's vexation at the subject, the quickened pace and slight stiffness in her steps, each footfall uneven against the worn floorboards.

Soon, they arrived at a large wooden door, its sides adorned with intricate golden patterns. Louise exhaled sharply and fumbled for a small silver key, the metal rattling in her hand. The door squeaked as it swung open, releasing a stale, dusty breeze in welcome of its guests. Lune immediately breathed into the cashmere of her turtleneck sweater, catching a small whiff of the dry, musty air. Beside her, Louise let out a strangled cough in annoyance, brushing back her hair with an impatient flick.

The room was chaos incarnate. Shelves sagged under scattered piles of empty pages, walls darkened with grime, and stacks of abandoned paper formed uneven towers across the floor. It was a forgotten attic, repurposed as a recycling bin.

"Does the library recycle them?" Lune asked, nudging an empty paper with her foot.

"Oh, we do," she sighed exasperatedly, "but they always come back in droves. We caught a pair of students last month, but they swore it was just a prank to feed on the rumors. Idiots, all of them."

Lune nodded, her eyebrows knitting as she took in the chaos.

"Don't dwell on it for now," she said, her tone firm but not rude. "Focus on getting started. Your shifts run from five to eleven in the evening on weekdays. I'll show you how to close your sections, lock the windows, and close the library. We don't need more ghosts sneaking in."

The Marrow Hill Library may be popular with students from nearby schools, mostly for its eccentric aesthetic and opulence, but it remained a public space. It was rare, almost unheard of, for a public library to keep hours this late. But then again, many explicitly called the place peculiar.

Her hips swayed lightly as she walked ahead, deliberate and confident.

"Leave it for the moon to take after your shift, 'Lune.' "

She let out a soft chuckle, quite pleased with her joke, the sound echoing faintly over the rhythmic click of her heels. Lune ignored the corny humor, letting a fresh breeze ruffle her obsidian locks.

-

Later, the clicking stopped. The office was entirely dark, save for the pale moonlight cutting across her desk. Louise sat in the stillness, her shoulders slowly dropping an inch, then two, until her head bowed forward. Her breath came slower now, heavier.

She reached across the polished wood, her hand moving blindly until her fingertips met the cold, metallic edge of the silver frame. Her thumb traced the smooth glass, pausing over the smaller shape in the photograph. Her throat bobbed, swallowing against a sudden, tight ache.

"Oh... Marie," she whispered in the empty room.