Lucian

It is 01:13 a.m.

A few minutes ago, a book was returned that, according to our records, should still be checked out.

The title is The Last Visitor. Author unknown. Borrower number 7812. Checked out before midnight, due back before sunrise.

Nothing unusual so far. At least, not for this library.

What was unusual was the person who returned it.

They suddenly stood before my desk, holding the book with both hands and looking at me as if I had asked them a particularly unpleasant question.

“I think this belongs to you.”

I asked when they had checked it out.

They didn’t know.

I asked if they had read it.

Again, no answer.

Finally, they told me they couldn’t even remember ever having been to this library.

This happens more often than one might think. However, usually not with people returning a book that clearly smells of old paper and rain.

I checked the borrower’s card. The entry was correct. Except that the borrower’s name was missing.

Number 7812.

I am certain I have seen this number before.

But where?

When I looked up again, my visitor had disappeared. I hadn’t even heard the front door.

For now, I have locked the book in my desk.

It lies there next to an old note that someone left a long time ago.

“Thank you for keeping watch over the night.”

A rather unusual dedication.

Especially since I cannot remember ever saying this to anyone.

Postscript: The book was already on my desk tonight before I unlocked the library.

I really should start taking better care of my keys.

Today I removed the old loan card from the directory again.

Five entries. Five return deadlines. And five names, at least one of which probably shouldn't be there.

The first reader.

E. Moonlight.

Girl at the desk.

Lucian.

You.

An outsider would probably see it as an extremely poorly kept card catalog. I couldn't blame them.

However, this is not an ordinary loan card either.

The first four entries have been there for a long time. I added the fifth one myself.

I remember it very clearly. I also remember why I did it. And above all, I remember the warning I received back then.

Some stories, so they said, should not be read too soon.

At the time, I thought that was a highly exaggerated statement. Now I have become more cautious with such judgments.

Especially in this city.

Earlier, I examined the book The Last Visitor once more.

It still lies locked in my desk. The cover is undamaged, the pages complete. Nothing suggests that it is anything other than an ordinary book.

And yet I am sure that I cannot keep it there forever.

The return 322 was certainly no coincidence.

Nor was the fact that the visitor could not remember borrowing it.

I have already experienced something similar.

It was a long time ago.

Back then, there was a different name on the card.

I removed it myself.

Not because I wanted to forget it.

But because it was better if no one else could read it.

Now that one word is written there.

You.

A strange entry for a library, I admit. But I am too old to still get upset about the strange rules of this house.

The corresponding return deadline is:

When the time is ready.

I know what that means.

At least I hope so.

Today I also cleared out the desk by the window. A stack of books had been lying there for weeks, which I really should have filed away long ago.

The space is now free.

The chair is ready.

And the book will remain in my drawer for now.

After all, it would be extremely rude to force all the library's secrets on a guest upon their arrival.

One should at least give them the opportunity to ask the right questions themselves.

Personal postscript:

In the first entry, I claimed that number 7812 merely sounded familiar to me.

That was not entirely true.

I know exactly where I know this number from.

But even a private diary does not have to know everything.

After all, you never know who might read it someday.

There are people who enter a library and immediately know which book they are looking for.

And then there are those who stand in the entrance for quite a while, as if they first need to convince themselves that the door behind them actually exists.

Today I had a visitor from the second category.

The person looked exhausted. A little lost. And quite obviously not particularly familiar with Midnight City.

They asked for directions.

Not to a specific place. But rather how to get back to where they had come from.

A question that is asked astonishingly often in this library.

I could have asked what exactly was meant.

Instead, I offered a seat by the window.

Some answers are easier to find when you first stop looking for them.

While my visitor walked through the shelves, I took The Last Visitor from my desk.

I hadn't touched it since that strange return.

The cover was unchanged. The pages complete. No damage.

And yet something was wrong.

I remembered having read the book before. But when I tried to remember the plot, I couldn't recall a single sentence.

On the last page it simply said:

"It does not end where you stop reading."

I am fairly certain that this sentence was not there yesterday.

When I looked up, my visitor was standing in front of the desk.

Their eyes immediately fell on the book.

"What is that?"

"A story," I replied.

"What is it about?"

I looked at the cover.

"I am trying to find out myself."

For a while we both remained silent.

Then my visitor asked if the book could be checked out.

I wanted to refuse. After all, I had myself placed the note "Locked".

But when I pulled out the checkout card, the word had disappeared.

Instead, under "Borrower's Name" it only said:

You.

Next to it the return date:

When the time is ready.

I do not know if the library has changed its own rules.

Or if it has always had rules that no one has explained to me so far.

Both would be extremely annoying.

Postscript: I did not hand over the book.

Not yet.

But I have placed it on the desk where my visitor can see it.

Sometimes, after all, a story has to find the right reader first.

And I have the strange feeling that this one is just beginning.