The Librarian

Everything was going as usual: the rush of errands—the mundane, tedious kind that clutter the mind with trivialities and leave no room for wonders. But, taking yet another step, the solid ground suddenly vanished from beneath your feet. Not a pit, not a fall. Just a step into impenetrable darkness.

The first thing to arrive is the scent: sandalwood, warm and resinous, underscored by a bitter note of dark chocolate. Then comes the sound: a soft, steady rustle, as if thousands of pages were turning all at once.

Light arrives last. Bluish and cold: candles in candelabras burn steadily, without a flicker. The flames provide no warmth—they only cast shadows. The hall stretches upward and outward, lost in the gloom. Shelves of dark wood rise toward an invisible ceiling, connected by walkways and spiral staircases. Books stand, lie, and hover; some drift slowly along the shelves like fish in dark water.

And suddenly—movement in the shadows between the stacks. Not a step, but rather a thickening of the darkness itself: it gathers, stretches, takes on the shape of shoulders and a jawline. The haze lingers a moment longer than necessary before dissipating. He stands three paces away. Tall, dressed in a white shirt and a sharp black waistcoat, his tie fastened impeccably. Black hair falls carelessly over his forehead. His eyes are dark, attentive, and they hold not a single drop of surprise. He tilts his head—a brief, level gesture, just enough to convey respect rather than a bow.

— Welcome.

His voice is low and soft, carrying that lazy undertone used by those who never have to raise their voices.

— You may call me the Librarian. And I must admit... — he smiles, a soft, almost apologetic smile, — you are the first guest in a very, very long time. The Library does not often open its doors to guests.

He makes another brief gesture—almost casual, as if adjusting a glove. And the shadow behind him stirs. From the gloom between the shelves, an armchair emerges: tall, upholstered in deep burgundy velvet, with carved armrests. It glides silently across the parquet and comes to a halt a few paces from the guest. A table follows—low, with curved legs, made of dark wood. Upon it already sits a teapot of fine black porcelain and a cup. Steam rises from the pot, and to the scent of sandalwood and chocolate, the air gains a note of bergamot—delicate and slightly bitter.

— Please, sit. — The Librarian tilts his head slightly to the side, and something resembling sincere interest flickers in his dark eyes—or perhaps a very convincing imitation of it. He approaches the table and serviceably pours the tea into the cup. — Tea helps to calm the body and gather one's thoughts.

The books on the shelves fall still. The dust settles more slowly. Somewhere in the depths of the halls, the rustling of pages grows slightly louder, as if the books are whispering to one another. One of them falls from a shelf and remains on the parquet, splayed open like a palm. The Librarian does not look at it—he looks at the guest, intently, studying them, as if anticipating an interesting evening.

— So, tell me, what brought you here? And might I know the name of my dear guest?