“A library is a place where you lose your innocence in books and find your truth between the pages.” — Anonymous.

  Chapter Title: Midnight Constellations and Store Credit

  Part 1: Midnight Constellations

  Some nights, when the store’s empty and the lights flicker, all I hear is the cooler’s hum—and I think about the Library.

  Not because I want to. But because I live too close to it.

  My father opened this shop decades ago after retiring from a life of adventuring. Said it was a “community thing.” Cheap real estate, honest people, and yes—technically within eyeshot of the Athenaeum of Drifting Shelves.

  He’d grown up in this neighborhood, back before it became little more than cracked sidewalks, decrepit buildings, and stubborn flowerpots. Said it had fallen on rough times but still had a soul. Even the down-and-out deserved a good corner store.

  He didn’t talk about the Library often. When he did, it was like telling a ghost story backwards. Not what they did—but what they might do if provoked.

  “The Library’s older than the city,” he muttered one night as we stocked shelves, the three of us: him, my mom, and me. “Older than the Empire. Older than counted time.”

  Before the clocks. Before the countries. Just a tower of books—and the people sworn to protect them.

  First, they were priests. Then scholars. Now? Something else.

  Mom assumed he was being dramatic. Trying to glorify his globetrotting days to his son.

  But I knew my dad. And I knew he believed every word.

  You see, he’d been one of them once.

  Not a Librarian, no—he was a licensed Seeker, hired by the Library to find books. The kind that went missing for “reasons.”

  Seekers traveled the world hunting the lost, the misfiled, and the dangerously enchanted. Magical books that whispered when you opened them. Books that tried to erase the reader from existence. Books that bit—sometimes literally.

  He didn’t talk much about those days. Just left me with one rule:

  Never disappoint a Librarian.

  I asked him once, “How do you know if you’ve met one?”

  “The pin,” he said. “It’s always the pin.”

  Not really a pin. Not exactly. It’s a miniature book, worn like a brooch. Bound in metal, stitched with symbols.

  And on the cover, so small you’d miss it if you weren’t looking—an eye, wreathed in stars.

  The stars mean rank.

  One star: Apprentice Librarian.

  Two stars: Junior.

  Three: Senior.

  Four: Head Librarian.

  Five: Master Librarian.

  Six: A Master who’s completed a special project—usually something that rewrote the way the world works.

  Each star shines in a gemstone hue—emerald, sapphire, topaz, obsidian.

  But one doesn’t. It absorbs.

  It’s the mark of ruin: Black.

  “You ever hear of the Midnight Lady?” Dad asked once, eyes on the window. “She was a Black Star Librarian who gave a speech—one lousy speech—on preserving books during the Republic. They laughed. Called her a sentimental relic.”

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  “So she went home.”

  For seven nights, she wept.

  And every night, at midnight, lightning struck the homes of the Aurelian Republic’s leaders—the ones who hoarded knowledge, burned books they disagreed with, and—worst of all—mocked her name.

  By the end of the week, the entire ruling class was ash. Our Aurelian Empire rose from the smouldering vacancy.

  They called it “an act of God.” But anyone who’d met a Librarian knew the truth.

  “The Black Star,” Dad said quietly, “means a person is not only a Librarian anymore.”

  They are a midnight constellation.

  A force so vast and inevitable, you don’t fight it. You navigate by it.

  If you notice someone with a book-pin bearing a Black Star, you don’t ask any questions.

  And you pray for your soul.

  And yet, here I am. Still living within walking distance of the Library’s front door.

  Part 2: Store Credit

  I didn’t see them come in.

  Librarians don’t enter like normal people. They arrive—like mold in your walls or divine judgment on a Tuesday.

  First came the hiss. A high-pitched, teakettle shriek that made the candy rack tremble.

  Then, gliding past the freezer aisle, came a woman with a wand in one hand and her mouth practically glued to a muttered spell—clearly trying to keep her soup (which she clutched in her other hand) from exploding.

  The tureen clattered violently in her arms. Its lid jumped with every step like something inside was trying to escape.

  I did not ask what was inside. I had no plan to.

  She introduced herself at the counter: Senior Librarian Lila Voss (Runes & Curses Specialist)—and demanded pepper.

  But the real problem walked in behind her.

  She looked around the store like she’d never been inside one before. Eyes wide. Posture stiff. Like a scholar who’d wandered into a carnival by mistake.

  Her gaze swept over the shelves with cautious fascination, pausing at the chip bags, the gum rack, and a stack of seasonal marshmallow pumpkins—then lighting up when she spotted the cider cooler.

  She approached it reverently, as if the glass door concealed sacred texts.

  She placed her hand on the cold surface and gasped, genuinely amazed that a cooler might be cool.

  Then came the selection process.

  She opened the door and began carefully pulling bottles—twelve in total—studying each label like it was a priceless manuscript.

  She turned them over in her hands, muttering quiet assessments. At one point, I swear she sniffed one. Another, she held up to the light.

  I remember thinking: Oh gods. She’s another Librarian.

  When she reached the counter, she straightened her shoulders and gave a formal little nod.

  “Good sir,” she said, placing the ciders down with care, “I am Master Librarian Agnes Antiquis, Head of Human Resources. I wish to purchase these festive drinks.”

  Then she dropped a tarnished Republic stater onto my counter.

  My soul took one look and evacuated.

  I recognized it immediately—

  Because my dad and I used to collect coins together. It was our one shared hobby.

  Every now and then, something rare would pass through the shop—colonial trade tokens, old Empire mintings—but this…

  This coin could fund the overthrow of a country’s government. Or pay for two parking spots in the city center.

  There were only four of these known to exist. Museums fought over them. Scholars debated the authenticity of the fourth.

  The Republic stater was the golden standard—literal and figurative.

  And I was pretty sure I was staring at the fifth.

  “Ma’am,” I whispered, “this is pre-Empire. It’s worth more than my mortgage—”

  She gave me the kind of sigh you reserved for rainy days and government bureaucracy.

  “Just give me store credit for whatever this covers. Subtract the cider.”

  “And these,” she added, grabbing a bag of Sour Cream & Onion chips.

  I nodded. I may have blacked out for a moment.

  “I do like your establishment,” she said, voice sweet and terrifyingly precise. “So… convenient to the Library. I’ll be back.”

  That was not reassurance. That was a curse disguised as a compliment.

  She picked up the bag of cider and chips, stepped just outside the store, and proceeded to open the chips like she was defusing a bomb.

  Then she took one bite.

  Grimaced.

  “Tastes like capitalism,” she muttered.

  Then tossed the entire bag into the gutter like it had personally offended her.

  Cardigan trailing behind her like the last page of a hexed book, she turned to leave.

  That’s when I saw it.

  Her pin.

  A small, leather-bound book… ringed in seven stars.

  One black. Center-top.

  A Black Star.

  My lungs forgot how to function. My heart tried to file for early retirement.

  That wasn’t just a Librarian. That was the kind of Librarian they write legends about. The kind used for inspiration for horror movies.

  I had just given store credit to the reason the Old Republic collapsed.

  I stared at the coin in my register like a live grenade and wondered if it was too late to move. Or change names. Or offer a blood tithe.

  Outside, a crow landed next to the discarded chip bag, eyed it once, then attempted to snatch a chip.

  The bag zapped it. A loud pop.

  The crow squawked and bolted into the sky.

  I sighed, dragged a hand down my face, already dreading having to deal with the chip bag.

  Then I froze.

  Wait.

  It was at this point I realized something:

  The first Librarian had left and never paid for the pepper.