The man from the publishing house had kind eyes. He finished the last page of the manuscript and carefully placed it on his desk. He was silent for a long time, looking out the window. When he turned back to me, his eyes were glistening.
"It's not just a story, is it?" he said, his voice soft.
I shook my head, my throat too tight for words. "It's memories."
He nodded. "We'll publish it."
The old library was quieter now, a relic in the age of digital screens. But it was my sanctuary again, the only place that made sense. Every day, I would come to the same hidden corner, the one where our story truly began. I would take the book from my bag—a published, real book with a cover and our names on it—and I would read. I would read our story, from beginning to end, lost in the world we had built together.
The librarian, a new woman with a curious and patient heart, had watched me for months. She saw the same man, the same book, the same corner, day after day. One afternoon, after I had left, her curiosity got the better of her. She walked to the corner, picked up the book I had left on the table, and read the title: Days with you.
She opened it. She read the first page, then the next. She read about a boy named Jin and a girl named Carla. She read about ramen and a Living List. She read about a love that was cut short, and a grief that lasted a lifetime. And as she connected the fictional tale to the lonely, faithful man who visited every day, the tears began to fall, slow and quiet at first, then in a steady stream.
She understood then. This wasn't just a library to him. It was a church. This wasn't just reading. she could connect the dots and just when the realisation hit her a tear fell from her eyes.
Wiping her tears, she made a decision.
She would keep the library open for as long as he kept coming back.
The End .