The Timeless Library

2. Fantasy

The cardboard box, now half destroyed, sits torn open on the Librarian's desk, its flaps swaying in the breeze.

A burst of wind pent up inside the box had seemingly been the source of the explosion. The tornado it had formed, albeit much smaller now and losing its strength, still floats through the room, stirring up everything it touches and further contributing to the overall chaos.

The third, disastrous hitch has left quite a mess, the Librarian recognizes with a grimace. She knows she must clean up, but she is uncertain of where to begin.

Feathers have poured out of the box, and some still flutter in the air along some thin playing cards: an ace and a king catch the Librarian's eye. Looking up, she sees that a sort of cosmic stardust, golden and glittery and stirred up by the wind, has stuck to the ceiling, covering it in tiny constellations.

But what the Librarian sees next makes her care little about the rest of the clutter. As if on cue, what is left of the box completely caves in, and from it comes rushing out an outpouring of water that spills all over her office floor. Soon it is everywhere—and water is one of a book's greatest enemies. Some of it has foam, she notices. And just then, as she bends over to brush her fingers over the bubbles, a small blue frog perched aboard a tiny wooden sailboat sails mere inches past her hand.

"Eek!"

Throwing composure out the window, the Librarian bolts upright and sloshes across the room, searching through it with desperation. There has to be something, something she can use to deal with this malicious vermin—

"—aha!"

She is in luck: a bow and arrow, a convenient part of the box's contents, dangle from the back of her chair. She takes them without hesitation and aims at the creature, only to find that the tiny boat is now empty, discarded by its tiny passenger.

Feeling every muscle tense, the Librarian moves slowly, unblinking, keeping her bow at the ready like a true sentinel. A long minute passes. Her enemy is nowhere to be found. Then she hears a plop, the frog jumping to strike, and she braces herself for the attack.

But nothing happens. She doesn't feel the impact on her body, nor the slime on her skin. Hesitantly she turns around, and finds the frog sitting atop her desk. It stares at her with big, glassy eyes, but shows no other sign of hostility.

Right: in all of the excitement brought about by this strange day, she almost forgot. This is still part of her duty. Chaotic as this particular instance may be, throughout eternity it has always been her job to process the items in these deliveries. She takes each one, relives the dreams and memories within, uses her words to put them down to paper, then binds them into books and stores them in the Library, next to the rest.

She looks around again. All of these things—even the water itself—represent a story she must tell. Cleaning will have to wait until her job is done.

At that moment, a small glass bottle floating across the water lightly bumps into her foot. She picks it up and runs her finger over its surface; same as always, she feels a familiar sense of anticipation, of restrained energy, followed by a deep, burning desire to write.

Bottle in hand, she sits at her desk, adjusts her bun, dips her quill in ink, and closes her eyes.