Chosen

Chapter Three

I read the words five times over, but they still failed to make any sense. A door? A passageway? A bridge between worlds? Every line got more absurd. And what was the hole that the music had led me to?

As crazy as all of it sounded, the worst part was its strange familiarity. Like I hadn't imagined it. I had lived it.

I quickly turned the page face down, scared that someone might see. When I looked around, I found everyone absorbed in his own work, and blew out a breath of relief. Carefully, I folded the page into a small square and tucked it into my pocket.

The rest of my unfinished poems, I gathered into a stack, and with one good pull, tore them in two. The loud ripping noise attracted a few eyes. I mumbled another "sorry" and searched around for wastebasket. There was one near Edmund. I walked over and flung the shreds of paper inside, but instead of going back to my table, I disappeared between the bookshelves.

It was dim there, and cooler due to the distance from the fire. I pulled the paper square from my pocket and scanned the lines written there one more time. It still read like fiction, but something in me couldn't label it that. At least not until I had a better handle on my past.

By chance, I glanced at the spines of the books on the shelf in front of me. Fairy tales next to a history of the Tudor monarchy. On the other side, a book containing European maps. Disorganization in a library was like sacrilege. Maybe someone just dropped them there, intending to come back later to fix them. I checked another shelf and found the same haphazard mess.

There was no system to it at all. How did anyone find what they're looking for?

I tore myself away before I got too invested. It wasn't my problem. I was a poet, not a librarian, and my time needed to be spent writing.

The thought of the blank page waiting for me back at my table made me groan. I eyed the shelf again. Maybe I could fix just that one. Arrange it alphabetically by author. It didn't take long, and when I was done, the sense of accomplishment was the best feeling I'd had all day. I ran my finger along the spines, admiring my work. "Okay, maybe just one more," I told myself. One shelf became two, and soon I was taking off books by the armload, thinking of how great it would be to get the entire section done.

The door to the room clicked open. I stopped, listening for the visitor to speak and reveal his identity, but nothing came. I peeked around the shelves to see for myself.

Gwenyth stood in the doorway. She held one hand inside of the other, pulling on her fingers. Lines of worry bracketed her mouth. Her blue eyes were fixed on the tables, narrowing as she looked for something.

As she looked for me, I realized.

I put the books down and walked out into the center of the room. The tension left her face when she spotted me. "There you are," she breathed.

"You're looking for me?"

"Yes. How's the writing going?"

"It's going..." I began, but thought it better that we didn't talk about it. I disarmed her with my most charming grin and said, "You didn't come here to talk about my writing, did you?"

"Not really, no." She lifted a hand as if she meant to touch me, but withdrew it, her voice trailing off. "I..."

"I don't bite, you know."

"Yes, I know, but I don't want to do anything you're uncomfortable with. You've been through enough."

"Look, you said that before all of this...the accident...well, we were together, weren't we?"