The Library of My Childhood

Behind our small house stood a public library that opened only on weekends. Its dusty shelves were stacked with books that smelled of old paper and rain. As a child, I would walk in with empty hands and walk out with a tower of stories. The librarian, an elderly woman with thick glasses, never asked me to be quiet; she believed children's whispers were the heartbeat of any library. What I learnt there cannot be measured by any examination. I learnt patience, because the library opened slowly and closed early. I learnt curiosity, because every cover hid a country I had never visited. Most of all, I learnt empathy — for inside those pages I lived a hundred lives that were not mine. Years later, walking past that small building, I saw it had been turned into a shop. A wave of sadness passed through me, but I knew the library still existed somewhere — inside me. Books, like memories, do not die when their walls fall.