✍️ Vol 3: The Magic Library
The Diaries of Mr. B. Archer
In the deepest part of the city, well past the vinegar works and the clock that runs slightly backwards, there lies a forgotten place known only to those who read with their antennae. A library — but not the dusty kind that smells of pipe smoke and overdue fees. No, this one is spun from spider silk and rose petals, glowing faintly beneath the earth, lit by fireflies and humming with unread stories.
I arrived quite by accident. One minute I was chasing a whisper about honey futures near the old train line, and the next, I was being ushered in by a beetle in bifocals who spoke in riddles and carried a lantern made from a jam jar. “Mind the quiet,” he muttered, “she’s dreaming today.”
Books floated here — not stacked or shelved, but drifting, fluttering, occasionally sneezing out a word or two. They wrote themselves, these books, dipping into inkwells balanced on spider threads, scrawling their tales in looping golden script. One particularly cheeky volume kept trying to rhyme ‘nectar’ with ‘helicopter’. I admired its ambition.
As I floated further in — wings on silent mode, quill tucked behind one ear — I felt it. A sort of humming. Not quite music, not quite memory. The stories were waiting. So I picked a book, opened to a blank page, and began. My own tale. A true one, mostly.
And then… the library responded.
The ground trembled, gently, like a snoozing bear rolling over in its sleep. A swirl of petals rose around me, fireflies gathered close, and a forgotten book — big, grumpy, and slightly singed — stretched open its covers and dragged me in.
I won’t bore you with the details of what happened inside (although I will say this: if a riddle ever asks whether bees can swordfight underwater, the answer is yes — but only on Wednesdays).
When I finally emerged, ink-splattered and a little giddy, the library was still. The floating books were watching me now. One even winked. I nodded, bowed, and placed my finished story on the shelf. It glowed for a moment, then nestled itself beside a volume titled The Sting of Destiny.
I think we understood each other.
So yes, if you find yourself one night feeling a tug behind your wings and the scent of old roses in the air — follow it. But take a story worth telling. The library is picky.
And remember, young wings:
Even the smallest voice can write the loudest story — if you listen, and let it fly.