"𝑊ℎ𝑖𝑠𝑝𝑒𝑟𝑠 𝑏𝑒𝑡𝑤𝑒𝑒𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑝𝑎𝑔𝑒𝑠 𝑎𝑟𝑒𝑛’𝑡 𝑎𝑙𝑤𝑎𝑦𝑠 𝑖𝑚𝑎𝑔𝑖𝑛𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛."
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By day, I stamp overdue books at the town library. People think I’m quiet, harmless, maybe a little boring. They don’t notice the ink stains on my fingers aren’t from pens but from sealing runes, or that the “restricted” section is actually a vault of cursed manuscripts that whisper my true name when I walk by.
At 3 p.m., Mrs. Cranston complains about romance novels being “too spicy.” At 3 a.m., I’m bargaining with a three-headed archivist from the Nether Realms who insists on late fees for souls, not coins. (For the record: we do not accept debit cards in Hell.)
My neighbors believe I live alone. Technically true—if you don’t count the invisible dragon curled on my roof, or the poltergeist who keeps rearranging my fridge magnets to spell rude words. They gossip that I’m unmarried because “no one’s caught my eye.” The truth is, it’s hard to date when your last partner turned into an eldritch hymn after opening the wrong drawer.
Every week, kids run in asking for fairy tales. I smile, hand them books, and never say: “I fought her last Tuesday, the wolf’s still limping.” Or: “Yes, the mermaids sing beautifully, but they also stole my left shoe.”
Sometimes the job is stranger than I’d like to admit. Just last night, I caught a werewolf pup gnawing on The Complete Works of Shakespeare. His mother glared at me like I was the problem, but I wasn’t about to let a first edition become a chew toy. I scolded them both until I remembered the emergency squeaky-dragon I keep under the desk. Problem solved. Literature saved.
And then, as if my shift wasn’t bizarre enough, Death himself stopped by. Hooded cloak, skeletal hand, the whole aesthetic. He slid "Knitting for Beginners" across the counter with all the menace of a thunderstorm. “No late fees this time,” he rasped.
“Not if you finish the scarf,” I told him.
He left looking almost sheepish.
I could quit, I guess. Live an ordinary life. Pretend I don’t hear monsters scratching at the edges of stories, begging to be let loose. But then who would keep the world from unraveling every time someone misspells an incantation?
So I stay. By day, your mild librarian. By night, your reluctant warden of forbidden tales. Just don’t return your books late—trust me, the fines are… monstrous.
ns216.73.216.121da2
and then Add to home screen.