I enter through the overwhelmingly wide gate that ends at east ten feet above my head and immediately sneeze. The dusty books permeating the walls, desks, and floors turn their spines to look at me as if my sneeze had disturbed their lifelong peace. The air feels worn and heavy as if the years have dragged it down with the yellowing dust that covers almost every surface. I can hear the tapping of my shoes coming from the other side of the room, foreign and unwelcome. I stop abruptly at the center of the room and try to familiarize myself with this forgotten place that is so uniquely new to me, yet so old. There are kerosene lamps resting on the pillars that line the long corridor I have been walking through, and there is at least one hardcover book laying under each. Why would anyone use books as coasters?

I spot what looks like a statue at the end of the hall but I decide to leave it for the finale of my journey, this is the kind of library that demands patience and leisurely exploration. I decide to grab the first book that catches my eye and my sudden motion sends layers of dust flying all over the shelves. One, two, three more sneezes and I whisper “bless you” to myself. The floorboards creak with the effort of supporting all of my 120 pounds, but despite their worn look they feel stable and protective beneath me. When I sit and rest my back on the shelf, cross my legs and think this is perfect lighting for reading. The lamps are placed in a way that the light seems to be stemming from the ground and the dim flickering of the flames soothe you into the meditative state the books have been living in for however long they have been here. “I’m sorry,” I whisper to the books, all of a sudden feeling guilty for intruding upon their haven.

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