The first morning at the library

Text: an original contemporary personal-account-style practice extract.

At eight o’clock, the library door stuck halfway open. I pushed with my shoulder, and the brass handle gave a small, reluctant click. Inside, the room smelled of paper and damp coats. My list said: unlock, switch on the lights, put out the returns box. It did not mention the silence.

By nine, the first visitors had arrived. A boy carried a book almost as wide as his chest; an older woman asked where the local history shelves had gone. I pointed them out, then watched the room begin to change. Chairs scraped into new positions. A quiet hello travelled further than I expected. The library had seemed to be waiting for us, but now it was busy waiting for everyone else.

At closing time, I put the returns box back by the door. The chairs were not quite in their rows, and a paper cup stood beside the window. I could have seen these as signs of a room left untidy. Instead, they looked like evidence that the day had happened. I turned off the lights, leaving the brass handle to catch the last strip of evening sun.