Summoned into the Library, he looked around: two chairs, a desk, some pens, a leather-bound notebook. No books. On one chair sat an elderly figure, half monk, half grim reaper.
The figure indicated that he should sit at the desk. “Write.”
“Write what?”
“Your story.”
“Where am I?”
The figure waved. “This is The Library. Where we keep stories. And their authors.”
“I see no books.”
“The authors and their last book are in the walls.”
“IN the walls?”
“They’re all there: Shakespeare, Hemingway, Danté. And many stories you’ve never read.”
“Why am I here?”
“To write your last book.”
The figure indicated that he should sit at the desk. “Write.”
“Write what?”
“Your story.”
“Where am I?”
The figure waved. “This is The Library. Where we keep stories. And their authors.”
“I see no books.”
“The authors and their last book are in the walls.”
“IN the walls?”
“They’re all there: Shakespeare, Hemingway, Danté. And many stories you’ve never read.”
“Why am I here?”
“To write your last book.”
