Shadows on the Shelf

In my half-conscious state, I sense someone close, their hands skilled and tender. They move me from the hard ground to a more comfortable place, their movements careful and practised. It's as if it is not the first time they have cared for someone in such dire straits. I am vaguely aware of cool cloths pressed on my skin, the sting of antiseptic cleaning the cuts, and bandages being carefully wrapped around my limbs and abdomen. A gentle presence, unseen and silent, works to heal my battered body. The pain begins to ebb, replaced by a comforting warmth that spreads through me. At some point, a soft voice murmurs words I can’t quite make out, a lullaby of sorts, calming and reassuring. It reminds me of nights when my mother would sing me to sleep, her voice a gentle anchor in the dark. My eyelids grow heavy, and I succumb to the soothing melody. In the depths of my sleep, I find myself standing in a familiar place—a lush meadow bathed in the golden light of a setting sun. The air i...

I awaken with a start, disoriented and drenched in sweat. I blink rapidly, trying to adjust to the light filtering through familiar curtains. I’m no longer in the library but in my bedroom at home. The walls are painted a soothing blue, adorned with hand-painted stars that my father and I created together. Each star holds a memory, a piece of our shared dreams. My gaze travels to the crisp, white duvet and pillows, a preference for cleanliness and simplicity that has always been my sanctuary. For a moment, I lie there, absorbing the comfort of my surroundings . The scent of vanilla from the sachets in my drawers mixes with the faint aroma of fresh linen. It’s a stark contrast to the musty, oppressive air of the library in my dream. That was an insane dream. It felt so real, so terrifyingly vivid. I sit up, my heart pounding, and look around, half-expecting the shadowy figures to emerge from the corners of my room. But all I see are familiar trinkets and mementos of my childhood—bookshe...

  I’m dead. That’s probably not how most people start their story, but it’s the truth. Well, sort of. I think I’ve been walking through life like a ghost long before I hit that point of no return. But dwelling on that won’t do us any favours, will it? So, hi. I’m Amaya—I insist you remember that. Not Maya, not Ama, not Amy, and certainly not any other variation. Just Amaya. Imperfect, flawed, and full of stories that spill over like cracks in an old book’s spine. I’ve made more bad calls than I care to admit. Some led me to make enemies with the kind of people who don’t forgive and never forget. Now, here I am, navigating the tangled mess my choices have woven, drawn inexplicably to a place they call the Darkest Library. Allow me to take you on a journey. Tonight, the city streets are cloaked in darkness, a stark reflection of the turmoil raging within me. The rain, once a source of comfort, now pelts down mercilessly, echoing the relentless battle I've faced. I stand alone in the ...