I scanned my eyes over the book spines, waiting until my hands reached the right book. Humming as I searched, the soft creaks of the library almost seemed to echo my melody. My breathing was calm, as opposed to the way I used to live.

“…Auburn, August, Austen. Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice,” The air in the dusty library seemed to shift as I found what I was looking for. I made no sounds, and the bookshelves held their breath in solidarity when I gently pulled out the book, having been abandoned for so long. The cover was faded and the pages smelled like old dusty cupboards that hadn’t been opened in a while, but I flipped to the beginning of chapter one anyway.

“It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife.”

The pages were almost speaking to me as I read, immersing me deep in the storyline. I daydreamed of romance and a family to care for and to love. The library arches reminded me of palaces and ball dances, laughter and playful banter. It was a shame those things were only memories of the past, as the world had gone to ruins all too quickly. First, it was the libraries. They were burned shortly after a questionable research project proved sufficient reading could overthrow the government. Soon, diversity in clothing became taboo, and people began to restrict themselves to gray sweaters and pants. People wore red scarves too, until they decided the freedom of choice in who one loves is too much for the common citizen to handle. Arranged marriages were determined at birth, with factors such as genetics, family, and social status coming into play.

It felt odd recalling these thoughts because they were not mine. I lived vicariously through my mother in a way; her storytelling was immaculate. Perhaps reminiscing about the past helped me reconnect with her.

This was the last library standing on earth, holding all of the classics and texts by great authors and philosophers. It hadn’t been discovered just yet, and I intended to make the most of my time here. At midnight, I had snuck out of my arranged house owned by my arranged husband with his arranged job. He left the house often, going on business trips and doing government duties. My job was to clean, cook, and wait. Only the best families deserved children, or so they said, apparently because of the concerning rate of overpopulation. Elizabeth Bennet’s sisters reminded me of my childhood dream to become a mother, and her father reminded me of my own.

Life was quite easy back when I was just a child. My father always came home after work with a smile at exactly 5 p.m., never a second late or early. My mother cooked and did chores around the house, but often she looked tired. She used to tell me about what life was like before the new government had taken over everywhere. Father wasn’t too happy about this, and one day, around midnight, I decided to sneak downstairs for a glass of milk. He was standing in the kitchen, mumbling something into the wired telephone. Before I could go back to bed and pretend I had seen nothing, he turned, his eyes on mine. That was the only time I had ever felt fear in my entire childhood. The next day mother was gone.

It was around 2am when exhaustion overcame me. It was calm and I felt completely safe. My eyelids felt like they were carrying the weight of the world. Or perhaps, the weight of all the knowledge in the library. Empty coffee mugs and opened books laid on the wooden tables nearby, as if people had left in a hurry to escape their fate. I sat at one of the woven chairs in the corner, continuing my book. Mr. Darcy’s confession rang in my head as I drifted off to sleep, the book still in my hands.

“My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you .”

That night, images flashed through my unconscious mind. I was aware that I was asleep, yet I couldn’t make myself wake up. There were sirens and lights and people all clamorously shouting. Deaths and riots and disease destroyed the many precious things in life. Flames and sparks and thunder shook the earth violently. Everything just seemed so bizarre. Where was the love in all of this? Was this the reason great authors wrote of love, because of the lack of it? I tried to imagine him, standing there, waiting for me. His face was dark and I could not make out his features but his form was ghostly as if he might fade at any moment. It seemed like he was in a different dimension. We stood there, staring, waiting, waiting for me to wake up and come to reality.

I awoke to the sounds of crackling. I smelled smoke before I was fully awake. My eyes only opened once I realized I was in danger. Flames all around me devoured the bookshelves like hungry beasts. Embers floated about like innocent fireflies, unaware of the destruction. Charred arches crashed into bookshelves, creating a domino effect that spilled books onto the floor and into the mouths of the flames. The last book left untouched was the one in my hands, the flames flickering dangerously close to the pages. They started to turn a golden brown, like marshmallows on autumn nights. Looking around in a panic, I saw that the exits had been blocked by fallen chandeliers and bookshelves, the debris stacking too high for anyone to move. There was no escape, no hope. I thought back to everything I had, then realized I had nothing. So I sat back down quietly, opened up my book, and let myself be consumed by the hopes and wishes of humanity.