1 Prologue
The early years of my life were a blur.
Ever since I could remember, I had been stuck in the adoption system, moving from one uncaring home to the next. If you had to ask me if I remembered anything about my real parents, it would be their eyes.
Eyes that looked at me with loathing. Eyes that looked at me like they would an ant. To them I was merely a burden.
On the day I was born I was diagnosed with autism spectrum disorder, a discovery that my parents had not taken well. They had been trying for years to conceive a child, and when my mother found out that she had given birth to a 'defective product' she gave up hope on having another.
Not too long after, my mother stopped eating.
She was no longer able to find joy in her work or her hobbies, and she eventually spent her days laying in bed, unwilling to leave her newfound shelter. My father blamed me for her subsequent depressive episodes, and at some point they came to the agreement to send the then two-year-old me away in the hopes that it might help her recovery.
Being born as a cute-looking child, at first there were many couples willing to give adopting me a try, but not soon after they would get frustrated at my inability to communicate and difficulty learning, and before I knew it I was back in the orphanage.
As I grew older I tried my hardest to be the child that parents would want, but even my best efforts would only result in them tolerating me for a while longer. My only safe haven was the local library.
The librarian who owned it was an elderly lady, Mrs. Kraft, and every Friday she would host a storytelling session for the children which I never failed to attend in the pursuit of leaving this world for another. One day, around the time when I was still seven, I had been stuck trying to read a simple fairytale. I must have been stuck on that book for days now, but on that day she came up to me and offered to teach me how to read it.
She must have noticed how my eyes lit up, as before I even had the chance to say yes she was already sat next to me, pointing out words, explaining their meanings and how to pronounce them. Once we'd finished with one book, we would move on to the next, gradually stepping up in the complexity, until one day I could finally do what I'd dreamt of since I first started attending those Friday sessions. Read a story on my own.
And just like that, my childhood years passed.
It was when I was 20 years old that Mrs. Kraft passed away. By then I had been surviving on support from the government and doing manual labour, however I never failed to visit Mrs. Kraft every day to see how she was doing and learn under her.
A few weeks ago her husband had also passed, and a few days later I was attending her funeral.
That day I cried until my tears ran dry.
I had lost the only person I felt I could call family in the world. I felt rage. Rage at her for leaving me alone and at myself for feeling that way about her. Rage gave way to regret, as I regretted that I wasn't able to tell her how I felt, how I wished she could've been my real mother, until finally I found peace. Happy at remembering all the good times we shared and that she was able to be with her husband again.
Not long after, I found a new job. Mrs. Kraft had written in her will that she wanted me to take over from her. She had no children and thus left her library and its contents to me, in the hopes that I would continue to look after it.
Even in death she was still looking out for me.
Life as a librarian was tough but rewarding. The hardest part was having to interact with strangers, but the majority of people who came to libraries weren't the loud and rambunctious kind, and it was a dream come true for me to be surrounded by all these books. I continued the Friday tradition, wanting to share the joy that once saved me to the rest of these children, watching them learn and grow hoping that one day they might spread it further.
On the day that I died it was raining.
Since Mrs. Kraft passed I had done my best to not tarnish the reputation of her library. Many of the kids who once came to sit on the floor and listen to stories were now sat hunched over at desks studying for their next test or reading and writing stories of their own. For a few days now I had recognized a young girl, maybe six or seven, who had been coming to the storytellings and was now in the process of trying to read her first book. I'd been struggling to work up the courage to ask her if she needed help, and decided that today would be the day.
Just, I had been telling myself that for the past three days. Before I knew it, while I was still fighting my inner fears, she had put the book away and was heading out to get picked up by her mother. I thought to myself 'I can't wait any longer!' and steeled my resolve. As she passed by the desk I called out to her.
"H-hey", I stammered, not having overcome my fear of communication.
"What?", She replied meekly.
"Next time you come here, if you want, I can help you learn how to read that book", I said, hoping that she wouldn't take it the wrong way.
"Really?! You'll really help me?!", she beamed at me. I could almost imagine her as a puppy, furiously wagging her tail in joy. As soon as I saw that, I felt a weight lifted off my shoulders. I had finally done it.
"Yep," I affirmed, no longer showing a nervous look on my face, instead I was just lost in the joy of the moment, a smile radiating off my face. Perhaps this is what Mrs. Kraft felt like all those years ago.
"OK, thanks mister!" she giggled in excitement.
By the time I had recovered from my elation she was out the door, and not wanting to wait a moment longer to tell someone, she dashed out to tell her mother the good news.
"Wait! Stop! It's dangerous!"
She was already past the pavement and crossing the road. Not too far down the road, a car was heading towards her, going well over the safe limit the street had set.
I was already in motion.
I leapt over the desk and crashed through the doors. With speed I never knew I was capable of, I managed to push her to safety just as the car made contact with my body. It was practically instant, but in that split second before my eyes would close for what I thought to be the last time, there was no regret. All I could feel was relief.
