I grew up in a world without books.
They said stories made people remember too much. Remembering led to questions, and questions led to rebellion. So they erased them. Now our lives are streamed through screens—safe, approved, and hollow.
But my grandmother never believed in forgetting. She would lean close when I was small and whisper stories that felt alive, her voice weaving rivers and mountains, heroes and heartbreak.
A single word appeared beneath her teacup on the day she passed away.
“Climb.”
For weeks, I kept the cup on my desk, staring at the word like it might unlock itself. I didn’t understand.
Not until the afternoon did the sky open.
I was walking home through the rice fields when the clouds shivered like water disturbed. From the break in the gray, a staircase formed—woven from threads of fog and light.
People scattered. I didn’t.
Something in me knew it was waiting.
The initial step wobbled beneath my foot but managed to maintain its stance. The atmosphere became lighter as I moved forward, carrying the same electrical charge that occurs before rain. My heart pounded loudly while I climbed until the ground beneath me turned into a hazy blur.
And then I saw it—
An island suspended in the air, which featured a glass- and ivy-covered spiral tower.
The Sky Library.
Inside, the silence hummed. Shelves coiled upward like a galaxy made of books—real books, their covers breathing as if alive. Pages whispered in languages I didn’t know but somehow understood.
A voice, soft as rain, filled the air.
“Choose carefully.
What you read will become a part of you.”
I selected a book randomly, which displayed a green cover and gold letters spelling The Girl Who Walked Through Winds.
Upon touching the spine with my fingers, the words entered my mind through remembrance rather than reading.
All at once, I experienced the flavor of mountain storms from peaks that I had no experience climbing. A sudden sensation of wind swept through my hair as it delivered forgotten voices that time had erased. My heart started to beat with a bravery that belonged to someone else.
The book nearly slipped from my hands as I emitted a shocked sound.
But I wasn’t afraid. For the first time in my life, I felt awake.
I spent hours—or maybe days—wandering the aisles, touching stories that filled me with new pieces of myself. A Book of Laughter taught me the sound of joy in a city I’d never seen. A book of grief left tears drying on my cheeks for people I had never known.
Each one changed me. Bit by bit, I wasn’t the same girl who had climbed those foggy stairs.
But then the voice returned, quieter now.
“The library keeps what it gives.
The more you remember, the harder it is to go back.”
I froze.
Did that mean I’d lose my life below? My friends, my job, my family? The hands in front of me shook because of numerous unexperienced lives that I never got to live. The desire to remain in that place was strong within me. I wanted to read every book, hold every story. The memory of my grandmother came to mind as she shared stories beside candlelight. The stories my grandmother gave me for storytelling served as a special gift that I needed to pass on to others. Simply Share.
My trembling hands replaced the final book in its proper position on the shelf.
The words escaped my lips in a soft tone when I said, ‘I’m not ready yet.’
The staircase remained in its original position after I had left it there. When I moved down the stairs, the atmosphere became denser and the world became more intense. The moment my feet met the ground, the familiar sounds of everyday life returned in full force.
I held an unfamiliar object within me.
Now, at night, I write. Not on a screen, but in secret notebooks. I write of deserts that sing, of rivers that remember, of winds that speak.
The library still waits above the clouds. I feel it, like a pulse just beyond reach. One day, when I’ve filled enough notebooks, I’ll climb again.
Until then, I live. I remember. I share.
Because some stories aren’t meant to be kept hidden.
They’re meant to set us free.
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Writer
Ankita Dey
Intern, Content Writing Department
YSSE