There is a library far away, built entirely of warm, dark cherry wood. It holds all the books in the world, but the most important thing is the librarian, named Elara. Her rule is simple: no noise, except the turning of a page.
Elara's job is not to catalog or shelve, but to walk the aisles. She carries a tiny, silent candle in a brass holder. Her footsteps make no sound at all because she wears socks knit from the thread of forgotten smiles. As she walks, she checks every book spine. If a book is open—even just a crack—it means the story inside is trying to escape and cause chaos.
Elara gently presses the covers shut, whispering only one word: "Contained." When the covers meet, the quiet hum of the library deepens, making the wood feel warmer. She finds the deepest, warmest corner, one piled high with soft, worn cushions.
Her task is finished when she sits down and simply watches the candlelight reflect on the polished spines, knowing that every story is exactly where it needs to be, waiting safely for the morning. She is never lonely, because she is surrounded by the presence of a thousand safe, sleeping voices.
Jessica Carey
