Sigils and Bookshelves in the Merged Library

Sigils and Bookshelves in the Merged Library

I was back in the local public library where I used to study for exams, but the building was merged with my childhood home. I was trying to find a quiet desk to finish some work, only the rows of bookshelves kept stretching on further than they should have, and the catalog numbers were replaced by small geometric sigils stamped in faded gold ink. I ran into an old college friend, Marcus, but somehow I also knew he was an ancient gatekeeper, even though he was just wearing his regular faded hoodie and holding a stack of returned paperbacks. He told me quietly that I couldn't check out the book in my hands until the sun crossed a specific threshold on the linoleum floor. I looked down, and the fluorescent light was casting sharp, unnatural shadows shaped like interlocking compasses. I felt this intense, quiet dread that I had memorized the wrong secret language for a test that was already starting in the basement.