《Ghostwriters' Library》


 The Leyline Scriptorium

    The bell above the door chimed softly, an ethereal sound that seemed to carry the weight of forgotten memories. It was the only announcement the outside world would receive when entering The Leyline Scriptorium, an old, sprawling library tucked away on a quiet street. To anyone who didn''t know better, it might appear as an ordinary place ¡ª shelves lined with books, heavy black curtains with gold linings draped the windows, and the faint scent of amber perfume hanging in the air. For those who dared step inside, the setting was anything but ordinary.


    Kastimir Blackwood, the librarian, sat behind his desk, a heavy volume of one of the newest arrivals propped open before him. His fingers absentmindedly stroking a yawning black cat on his lap. He takes a sip of coffee while his eyes traced the words on the page, unbothered by the occasional whispers in the empty sections of the library. He got used to the occasional rustling of pages, the creaking of the old wooden beams, and the hushed sighs of the souls wandering the library hall.


    "Louise, we''ve been over this," Kas reminds, his tone casual. The sound of hurried footsteps echoes through the empty room, though only Kastimir and cat is present. A book, seemingly of its own accord, floats off the table and drifts back to its rightful place on the shelf.


    "Ana, your shift is today. Please begin dusting the shelves," Kastimir said, his tone polite yet firm. When the feather duster remained still, he sighed He pulls out a logbook and sure enough, a pair of bookmarks with Ana''s name on it was there, with a little farewell note, "I wanted to say my goodbyes to you last night, but you were deep in slumber and I wouldn''t like to cause you more trouble than I already had."


    Kastimir pauses for a moment, he wore a gentle smile as he made his way to the library section where Ana used to write. Surely enough, there appeared a shelf dedicated to display her very own magnum opus¡ª a collected of books that speak volumes of her life, "I suppose she''s moved on to the afterlife. Good for her. Ezekiel, you¡¯re up."


    Books began to fly off the shelves, Ezekiel''s blatant tantrum over the shift in responsibility. Kastimir raised an eyebrow. "Enough. Life¡¯s unfair¡ªwhy should the afterlife be any different? And those books? You¡¯re responsible for your own mess. Clean them up."


    To this, the cat purred as if in acknowledgment of the movie line Kas just used.


    ¡°Not my words, I know. But every good story deserves some embelishment, no?¡±


    The black cat purred again. First was Pirates of the Caribbean, then Lord of the Rings. Kastimir has always been intrigued by the cat''s wide knowledge of books and popular media, yet among all the events that transpired within the halls of this mysterious library, the cat purring paled in comparison¡ªit has always been dismissed in the back burner of his mind.Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.


    The ghosts, the ones who had passed but lingered for reasons unknown, often took form in the library¡¯s many volumes. Each one, a ghost who¡¯d been bound by unfinished business in life, given the peculiar opportunity to recount their story in full. In exchange, they could slowly unburden themselves, their souls lightening with every word written, until¡ªwhen the tale was finished¡ªthey could at last pass on, free from the shackles of their mortal regrets.


    That was Kastimir''s work: he gave them the space and the silence they needed to write their stories. In return, they offered him company and aid with menial tasks... and sosomething even more elusive¡ªa decadent opportunity, one that granted him access to confidential details so extraordinary, they were beyond the reach of even the boldest writers.


    These stories were unfiltered truths, filled with emotions so pure and real that they often left him breathless. Kastimir had no interest in writing. That was a burden he had long since discarded, and yet he finds solace in reading.


    The books filled the void that had been left behind when a woman he once loved slipped away. Her name still lingered on the tip of his tongue, but he no longer said it aloud. She was gone, yes, and yet he still remained, hoping for her soul to one day find its way to the library''s doorsteps.


    A flashback flickered in his mind¡ªa quiet, sunny afternoon. In their little house, tucked away in a quaint little town. The house despite lacking granduer were filled with warmth, laughter, and the comforting presence of the dog that ran in circles, its paws pattering softly against the wooden floors. It wasn¡¯t a grand life, but it was theirs, and it felt complete. They hadn¡¯t been blessed with children, but their love had created something even more profound¡ªa simple joy of shared moments.


    He remembered how she¡¯d smile, always with a hint of sadness in her eyes, warning him about the days to come. She didn¡¯t have long to live, but he loved her anyway. He loved her with a fierce, unquestioning devotion, knowing that one day his heart would shatter. Even then, even with the inevitable loss hanging over them, he loved her, the way a man loves a fleeting moment of grace¡ªfully, recklessly, with no thought of the pain that would follow. He cherished it all, knowing that one day, the echoes of her laughter would be all that remained.


    ¡¯So you had no regrets at all? Even after leaving me?¡¯


    Kastimir breathes a sigh. He may be walking amongst the living, but his heart is as cold as the dead that roamed these halls. The same question would haunt his waking hours, and although he asked it so many times, the agony remained painfully familiar.


    So instead, he lost himself in the lives of others, those who had endured heartbreak, betrayal, loss ¡ª and, in some strange way, he found this process rather therapeutic.


    The Leyline Scriptorium was known far and wide for its collection of hauntingly vivid volumes, each one filled with the restless energy of those who still clung to their earthly existence. People from all walks of life are drawn by rumors of books that could make you feel the life of the writer ¡ª every joy, grief, passion and regret. And Kastimir, though weary of human interaction, found himself curiously detached from the crowds. They came for the stories. He stayed for the ghosts.


    Kastimir may have given up on writing, but deep in the recesses of his heart¡ªwhere the painful truths are often buried¡ªhe longed for closure. Unconsciously, he stayed, hoping that, like the ghosts that haunted his library, he too might one day be able to let go.