Today was a rather ordinary day. Not many patrons visited the library’s collection of hauntingly good stories, save for the usual regulars.

  By day, it was a quiet public library. By night, it became something else entirely—a sanctuary where ghosts gathered to write the stories they left unfinished in life.

  Kastimir Blackwood was dozing at his desk, a cigarette burning lazily between his fingers. Smoke curled above him like fading memories as he drifted into thought, recalling how he ended up working at the ghost library in the first place…

  It was after his wife died.

  He had spent his days wandering the forgotten alleys and quiet corners of town, moving through them like a shadow. He didn’t know what he was looking for, only that some part of him hoped he’d recognize it when he saw it.

  It was during one of these quiet, meandering afternoons that he noticed it—a building hidden in plain sight.

  Not hidden by magic, exactly, but overlooked by intent. The kind of place the world simply… forgot.

  He had passed it a hundred times, yet today, for the first time, it revealed itself to him as a library.

  The sign above the ornate door read:

  The Leyline Scriptorium

  Elegant, serifed letters etched into an aged brass plaque. A poster taped to the glass window caught his attention:

  -Librarian Wanted-

  Qualifications: Must love to read. Must have lost someone dear.

  At first, he laughed. If I were a character in a story, he mused, this would be my call to adventure.

  “Sure,” he muttered, lighting another cigarette, “a man who’s lost everything now invited to lock himself away in a library. How poetic.”

  “I know, right? All that potential locked in dusty books—if only they’d hire me!”

  The voice came from beside him. He turned and saw a woman dressed in elaborate gothic fashion—lace gloves, corseted bodice, and dark velvet. Her presence was theatrical, but her eyes were sharp.

  “Sorry—who are you?” he asked.

  “Oh! Where are my manners?” She offered a playful curtsy. “Romagna L’Fey du Avalon. I know—it’s a mouthful. But for a handsome lad like you, you may call me Roma.”

  Kastimir opened his mouth to reply, but a new presence interrupted—a striking woman, clearly the librarian. She was poised, immaculate: white blouse pulled tight across her ample chest, a sleek pencil skirt, and a tailored coat draped elegantly over her shoulders.

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  “You’re here to apply, yes?” she asked with a silken tone.

  “Me? Oh no, I was just—”

  “—about to come in?” she finished, smoothly. Her smile was practiced, professional.

  Then she turned to Roma, the warmth in her voice vanishing.

  “Madame Roma, you know loitering is against policy. You’re bad for business.”

  He walked in with the librarian, and it is in this moment when we, the readers will pan out of this cutscene and go back to present day.

  ...

  A snap jolted Kastimir awake. He was back at his desk. Smoke still lingered, but the dream—or was it a memory?—had dissolved.

  Standing in front of him now was Roma, hands on her hips, a smirk playing on her lips.

  “Well, look who they hired,” she said with a sneer. “A middle-aged man who sleeps on the job. How pathetic.”

  “What do you want, Roma?”

  She leaned in, lowering her voice just enough to sound dangerous.

  “A chat… about this library’s future.”

  Kastimir rose slowly from his chair, spine straightening with deliberate calm. He brushed the ash from his sleeve, met her gaze, and said with quiet resolve,

  “The library is as it should be. I understand your frustration with the status quo—but tell me, Roma, why fix what was never broken?”

  She laughed—a sharp, theatrical sound that echoed through the high, domed ceiling. Her boots clicked forward a step as she gestured grandly, lace-gloved hands sweeping the air like a conductor invoking a storm.

  “Because I am a visionary,” she declared, eyes gleaming. “I see an untapped wellspring of power buried within these walls. Power the likes of you could never hope to awaken, let alone wield.”

  Kastimir’s brow furrowed. He tilted his head slightly, voice lower now, edged with steel.

  “And what exactly do you mean by ‘the likes of me’?”

  She leaned in, lips curled into a cruel smile.

  “A man with no future. No ambition. A relic clinging to memories that no longer belong to him.”

  He paused. A slow inhale. His hands tightened into subtle fists at his sides, but his tone remained steady.

  “You’re wrong. I am still hoping… for something.”

  Roma’s face twisted, amused and venomous.

  “Hoping?” She spat the word like it tasted bitter. “Hoping for what, Kas? That your dead wife might come walking through those doors again?”

  She scoffed, stepping back with a flourish of her coat.

  “That’s not hope. That’s delusion dressed in mourning, and you know it.”

  Kastimir said nothing. His silence stretched long and heavy, like the quiet before a storm. The flame of his cigarette had died, but the ember in his eyes had not.

  Roma pressed on, voice softening— into a sinister tone.

  “Here you are, surrounded by ancient forces—sigils, whispers, veiled power—and yet you waste your days cataloguing books. Reading words written by the dead, telling yourself it’s purpose, when it’s nothing more than an excuse to relive what you’ve lost.”

  His eyes, shadowed but steady, locked onto hers.

  “This is a library, Roma.”

  He stepped toward her, slow and deliberate.

  “And I am a reader. We do relive the past. We preserve it, understand it, and—when we’re lucky—we make peace with it.”

  His voice dropped a note colder, a tone reserved for final warnings.

  “What I do with my time is not your concern.”

  Roma opened her mouth to argue, a flicker of protest rising—

  “Enough.”

  Kastimir’s voice cut cleanly through the space between them.

  He turned away, smoothing down a leather-bound volume with almost reverent care.

  “The library will fulfill its purpose,” he said without looking back. “It is not a weapon to serve your ambitions, nor a stage for your drama. If you have nothing else to say—leave.”

  Then, with chilling finality:

  “Your loitering is bad for business.”