A story
The Library of Worlds
The morning light sweeps in through the window. How did I forget to close the curtains? I groan, swinging my legs off the bed. I really should have shut the blinds. Peeking outside, I note it's a "soft, cloudy Saturday morning"....still, far too early. I pull the blinds closed and turn around.
I sigh and make my way back toward the bed, passing the door that stands alone in the middle of the room. No walls, no frame....just a door, suspended in the open. As I walk past it, I catch it from the side: the rich chocolate-brown wood, the subtle grain running across its surface. On the front, intricate carvings twist together...roses entwined with licking flames, petals and fire curling into one another. And then, just as clearly, I see its back..plain, unadorned, a quiet echo of the ornate front. From this angle, both faces are visible at once, like a prop waiting for a stage.
A beautiful door, really.
Wait.
Why is there a door in the middle of my room?
I stop and stare.
I stare at it. Then I take a step closer.
My hand reaches for the doorknob. Hastily, I turn it and pull the door open.
Bright light floods the room, and I gasp. How is this even possible? Strangely, I feel a strong urge to step through. I slowly extend my hand into the white, blinding light....my fingers disappear. I pull my hand back, staring at it. Still there. Still mine.
Alright. I'm going in.
But of course, I have to get prepared. You can't go anywhere without being ready. I hurry off to change into my morning clothes, my mind racing. I still couldn't quite believe there was a magical door in my room.
I grab my satchel...and pack a pen and a notebook. I added a few of my favourite books from the bookshelf, a mirror, and some other essentials. Once I'm ready, I take a deep breath.
And step through the door.
I'm greeted by a rush of air, cool as a shower against my skin. My eyes widen at the sight before me. Thousands upon thousands of small squares cover a massive wall in front of me. They look like windows...or maybe TV screens. Each one holds a different scene: some show beautiful meadows, others terrifying forests. I scan them one by one, and then the realisation settles in...
All of the squares hold scenes from the books I've read. And some I haven't.
My eyes twinkle with glee. There...a forest with a lamppost (Narnia). A beautiful meadow (Inkworld). A castle (Hogwarts). A secret agent's house( The Mysterious Benedict Society)... and so many more.
I knew that I could step into every single one of them.
I was about to have a long journey. I stood there, breath caught in my throat, staring at the impossible mosaic before me. Each square pulsed with its own light, its own weather, its own life. I could feel the cool breeze from a windswept moor, hear the distant crash of waves from an ocean scene, and almost smell the pine needles from a dark, enchanted forest.My fingers itched to touch the one showing Hogwarts. The familiar turrets and the shimmer of the Great Lake's surface pulled at something deep in my chest. But I held back. Patience, I told myself. This isn't a race. This is a library, and libraries are meant to be explored.
I walked along the vast wall, my footsteps echoing in the cavernous space. The ceiling was lost in a soft, milky haze, and the floor beneath my feet was a smooth, dark stone that seemed to absorb the light from the squares, casting no reflection. It was just me, the wall of worlds, and the quiet hum of infinite possibilities.
I stopped in front of a square that showed a sprawling, gothic city under a bruised purple sky. Spires and bridges twisted into impossible geometries. I didn't recognize it. My stomach fluttered with a mixture of excitement and fear. An unknown world. A story I hadn't read yet. A book that hadn't been written?
I looked at my satchel, feeling the reassuring weight of my notebook and pen. I was a reader, not just a visitor. I was here to observe, to learn, and to document. That was my purpose.
Turning away from the unknown city, I found myself drawn back to a familiar scene. A quiet, snow-covered forest, and in the center, a single, glowing lamppost. Narnia. The snow looked so soft, so inviting. I could almost feel the crunch under my boots.
I raised my hand and gently touched the surface of the square. It rippled like water, and a wave of crisp, icy air washed over me. My reflection, superimposed over the snowy scene, smiled back at me.
I took a deep breath, the scent of pine and frost filling my lungs.
"Alright," I whispered to myself, my voice a small, determined sound in the vast, silent hall. "One world at a time."
Inkworld. I scanned the wall, my eyes darting past castles and deserts and spaceships, until I found it.
A meadow. Soft green grass swaying under a gentle breeze. A blue sky with wispy clouds. And in the distance, a figure..a girl with a brown coat , reading aloud from a book. I recognized her instantly. Meggie Folchart. and perhaps it was Dustfinger, sitting under a tree, fire dancing in his hand. It was hard to tell from here.
Either way, it was Inkheart. The world where stories bled into reality. Where characters stepped off pages. Where words had power.
My heart thumped harder. This is a place where a well-spoken sentence could change the weather. Where the line between reader and written was as thin as a page.
I reached out, my fingers brushing the surface of the square. The meadow rippled. A scent of wildflowers and damp earth curled around me.
"Alright," I murmured, smiling now.
I stepped through.
The grass was soft beneath my feet. The sun was warm on my face. And the air ...oh, the air..was thick with the smell of ink and paper, like a freshly printed book left open in the sun.
I turned in a slow circle, taking it all in. The meadow stretched for miles, dotted with poppies and cornflowers. A stream glittered in the distance. And there, on a hill, sat a small stone cottage with smoke curling from its chimney.
I started walking toward it. My satchel bounced against my hip, my notebook ready. I had a feeling I'd be writing a lot today.
Because in this world, stories weren't just read.
They were lived.
By Barirah
Comments
Post a Comment