s e k i l a s m e m o r i
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The fog came early that day, wrapping the city in a thin layer of gray.
My footsteps were almost silent on the wet stones and narrow streets that weren't on any map.
I stopped in front of a big building.
An old sign swung gently above the door: "Library."
The library was as quiet as always. The windows were covered in a thin layer of dust, the door looked worn out, but it never creaked when opened.
I knocked softly, even though it was never locked. I raised my hand and slowly pushed the door open.
And for the first time—after years of being the only visitor—I wasn't alone.
"I've been waiting for you," said a middle-aged man, standing behind the counter with a friendly smile. His hands were arranging pages of a book that looked fragile with age. He didn't look surprised to see me at the doorway.
Instead, he smiled—calmly, like he already knew that today was the day we'd finally meet.
"You…" I finally spoke, but didn't know how to finish the sentence.
"Come in. No need to take off your shoes if you don't want to," he said, pointing to an old chair near the bookshelf.
I stepped inside, letting the door close behind me with a soft click. I hung my damp coat on the wall, then sat on the chair I usually avoided because it was too close to the entrance.
My eyes scanned the neatly arranged shelves, covered in the dust of nostalgia. Every corner of this library held memories that belonged only to me.
"I know you like stories without happy endings," he said, suddenly.
"You read The Tower Without a Door three times in one summer. You marked the part where the main character stopped believing in the world."
"You've been watching me?"
"No. Just remembering."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
He just laughed at my question. Then he sighed and began to speak—
"I've always wanted to meet you. Every time I came to clean this place, it's true—there was never anyone here. But I found traces of you. That's when I realized someone had been coming here. And knowing that someone was you… it made me happy."
"What's so special about me? Have we met before?"
"I'm not sure either. All I know is, whoever came here definitely didn't come with bad intentions. Probably someone who likes to be alone, who spends a lot of time reading stories—stories written because that person didn't have another life to look at or tell. Sounds about right, doesn't it?"
"What is this, are you mocking me?"
He laughed again, then looked at me with a wider smile.
"It's nice to see you again. I read your work—can't believe a twelve-year-old wrote that. Isn't that a bit too young?"
"Don't remind me."
"Haha… yeah, it is wasn't that great. But knowing you're doing okay is more than enough for me."
I fell silent, staring at him with a confused look. We'd just met—so why did he keep saying strange things?
"I'm not so sure about that…"
I walked along the shelves, glancing at book covers—just going back to what I usually did.
At first, the man simply watched me quietly, observing each step I took without saying a word. But a moment later, I happened to glance his way—he was still standing near the counter—and there it was again, that faint smile on his face.
Eventually, I asked—
"Do I remind you of someone, sir?"
"Sorry?"
"The way you look at me … but I don't think I am that person."
The middle-aged man lowered his head slightly, eyes gently narrowing. The corner of his lips lifted into a faint, meaningful smile. He let out a soft laugh, then said—
"Yeah… it's been a long time. But at least now, she knows that even until the end of my life, I never stopped thinking about her—and I'd do anything for her."
His gaze shifted to me, still with that warm, gentle smile.
For some reason, I feel… relieved?
Even though I had no real reason to. Just seeing that smile loosened something inside me.
"You know," he continued, his gaze never changing, "you two are so alike. She was a writer too—and she's the reason why this place exists.
And you… seeing you make it this far. It makes me proud, more than I can put into words."
His words hung in the air, heavier than silence. I looked at him without saying anything—unsure how to respond, unsure what to say.
I wasn't even sure there were any words that could respond to that.
"Now, tell me—what keeps you going?
Why do you keep writing, word after word, page after page, even though you know no one's going to read it.
But still, you write … as if you're putting your whole life into every sentence."
" … "
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The room had no clear shape. No floor to stand on, no walls to lean against, and no sky to look up to.
She had been there far too long—so long that time had lost its meaning. Her body didn't age, but her mind? It was starting to fray, like a thin thread pulled too tight. She no longer knew who she was.
Sitting in the middle of the void, her hands trembled as she hugged her knees.
Her once-bright blue eyes were now dull, heavy with exhaustion. Chaotic thoughts echoed like endless whispers inside her head.
She knew—if this went on any longer, she'd break completely.
How long had she been here? Months? Years? Centuries?
"Can't you just give me another chance?" she whispered.
"Why should I?"
She went quiet for a moment—not sure if she should say it.
"I'll do anything.
Even if it means serving your will. I'll do it."
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