Today is a commemorative date.
Families gather in their homes, laughter drifts through open windows, and the sounds of the street mingle with the gentle warmth of the afternoon.
The sun still reigns in the sky, as if reluctant to leave.
Inside a vast library — old, silent as a church — a young man walks among corridors that seem endless to him.
He moves slowly, his eyes searching for answers he cannot yet put into words.
The library is immense, a labyrinth of paper.
The shelves stretch in straight lines like the columns of a temple, divided by letters. A, B, C... all the way to the end of the alphabet.
Before the plaque marked with the letter H, he stops. His eyes scan the titles, but his mind wanders.
A woman approaches.
She was not young, yet not quite old either.
Her brown hair was tied back with an elegant carelessness, her eyes dark as fresh ink, and her forehead gently lined — not merely with age, but with something else.
Her expression held a rare trait: that quiet gentleness only cultivated with time, often found in maternal figures.
Perhaps she was the librarian.
She observed him for a moment — the kind of gaze a mother gives when she senses restlessness — and, with a smile that resembled the comfort of a distant home, asked:
— Young man, you seem a little lost. Can I help you?
— I'm looking for books on ancient history... specifically on some past years and the hero — he replied, hesitant.
The woman raised an eyebrow, somewhere between surprise and nostalgia.
— Ah... Young people are always fascinated by the ages of heroes and disasters — she said, in a tone softer than skeptical.
As she spoke, she guided him through the corridor, toward the section where small golden labels read "History."
He followed in silence, though irony lingered in his thoughts — not sharp enough to be sarcasm, but colored by a light weariness, even laziness.
— It's not about heroism — he said after a pause —. It's just that… at school, at home, everyone tells the same versions. The same words, the same conclusions.
I never truly knew everything. So I decided to come see for myself.
The librarian smiled, this time with the tenderness of someone who understands.
— History... — she began — always carries events, but every event is an interpretation.
We are made of narratives, and facts are nothing more than stories in armor.
As long as you're willing to listen — or to tell — there will always be a living spark in the past.
She pointed to a stack of books.
— Here they are. Ten volumes, perhaps more. Can you manage?
He nodded.
The weight of the books seemed lighter than the weight of ignorance.
— I think I'll come here every day. Thank you, truly. I'll take them to the table now — he said, bowing his head slightly in gratitude.
— No trouble at all, young man — she replied, already turning away.
— Knowing we've helped someone… is the best remedy for the soul. Enjoy.
He stacked the books carefully, as if handling relics.
He walked to an empty table, sat down with reverence, and opened the first book.
On the cover, in aged lettering:
"The Perspective of History."
Silence returned to fill the space — but now, it was no longer so lonely.
With something to do, it felt almost comforting.