POV: HELENA IVYRA
I began to leaf through the pages of The Pen and the Arc at a slow pace, glancing lightly at the titles of each topic and, across several pages, I found various authors cited.
Names so striking for literature; each one marked an era, expressed what they wanted, shaped the thought of an entire generation.
Authors like Dostoevsky, Charles Bukowski, William Shakespeare, Machado de Assis, Clarice Lispector, among many others.
"All of them played important roles in the cultural and social development of thousands of people around the world," I reflected mentally, and continued to observe the key points of the book.
They were like bricks in a construction, each with its importance and contribution, all forming the house that literature represented. It was even curious to realize how long a person's legacy could be through their words. Names crossed centuries as if they were immortal entities.
Authors who became more than just masters of writing or authorship.
They were structures that founded all who came after them. If today we can see the world through the screen of an e-reader, it was thanks to the literary lenses these masters had created.
With their words, not only literature was modified by them, but all thought. Their books, when they were written, not only told stories; they possessed messages, brought hidden meaning, a kind of direction they wanted their readers to have. These legacies are excellent portraits of how books shaped human beings themselves.
Books are what record our memories, give voice to our revolutions, express our love, contemplate our existence.
During a brief moment when loneliness was no longer an enemy, but rather a very welcome companion in our reading. Readers became part of the author's work.
'It's as if authors were a kind of Sasori, and we, their puppets. However, instead of empty, we are full of life, knowledge, and our own experiences.'
Even though I already knew a little about this, I decided to delve even deeper into the reflection on authors. Another interesting aspect was something I saw right after the pages with summaries of the authors ended: the beginning of the chapter on literary schools.
"Imagine being so good at something that they create an entire school just to study what you did. That's what I call being awesome... Damn!" I exclaimed, just imagining being so good at something to reach that level.
On several occasions throughout history, works were so impactful that they became precursors of literary schools, like for many the first literary work in Brazilian history: A Carta, by Pero Vaz de Caminha. Or even other more famous ones, like Iracema, by José de Alencar, a very important work for Brazilian Romanticism.
As I turned the page, I saw a passage highlighted by the author that said: "A society is a reflection of what it reads."
"Are we reflections of what we read? Hmm, maybe that explains why I'm so confused. After all, I read everything: Machado, Webnovels, technical books..." I sighed.
"What a mental mess, huh, Helena? I'm like a cracked mirror in dozens of different parts," I concluded.
As I continued reading, the passage said:
"If you consume many romances, you might start to see the world with a more sentimental gaze, perhaps have faith in love more easily. If you are surrounded by tragedies, you might be a person more prepared for losses. (...)
(...) Of course, there is still a fine line between fiction and reality. Even with our gifts, the enchantments, it is necessary to draw a limit to where we are, as real beings, and where it is the fiction we write"
"How do you draw that limit? Although, that must be a good question to have now... Right?" I asked myself.
Authors possessed a very interesting mystique, but some chose, obligatorily, to be too abstract...
"Hmph... Again, more questions than answers," I sighed.
Maybe it was necessary to become an author to understand what these individuals meant. In reality, it wasn't a bad idea.
I always had a fascination with magical worlds, with stories of distant kingdoms, mythical creatures, legendary battles between light and darkness. This type of crazy thing.
I thought about creating something like that one day, although... I felt that, sometimes, my thoughts were too dispersed or my words were too common. Seeing those authors, I always wondered: do I have what it takes?
'Maybe I'll only know if I write something one day'
Thinking about it, I guess I took that book home. Because, I think it was a good read to complement my studies.
I had decided, after quickly checking the clock. It was 3:47 PM.
"Wow, time flies... Better take a quick look at that book Rose recommended," I said to myself, as soon as I finished my first check of the book.
I closed the books, set aside The Pen and the Arc, and decided to return the other to its grave in this cemetery of ideas.
Meanwhile... Downstairs.
POV: ROSE, THE LIBRARIAN
"Wow, what a busy day today..." I murmured, observing the library entrance almost without blinking. It was rare to see such a coming and going of readers.
And, honestly? It makes me happy. There were few young people today who were as passionate about reading as they used to be.
That girl, Helena, was one of those rare presences that reminded me why I still worked there.
Young people like her were precious exceptions in a time when libraries were more nostalgic monuments than living places.
I reflected as I finished filling out a book's card and file. I returned to my chair, letting my body sink into the old creaking upholstery that still hugged me like an old friend.
I turned to the computer and saw a small image that caught my attention.
A black pole with a wide cover above. Divided between two colors, blue and light-green stripes. It was from that famous medicine brand, Guarda-Sol.
'Apparently, they announced an event that will take place in April, a kind of partnership with…'
My thought was interrupted when I saw, out of the corner of my eye, a young, tall man, with light-blond hair, wearing a classic brown hat and a somewhat comical green social shirt.
The man quickly swept the hall with his eyes, until they landed on me, and, for some reason, that made me uneasy...
I watched him approach, until I greeted him:
"Good afternoon, welcome to the Provincial Library! How can I help you?" I repeated the greeting, as was customary.
"Good afternoon, madam. How are you? Please take a quick look at this," the man said, handing me a black wallet.
When I opened it, I saw a Federal Police badge, and the title: Noah Williams, Federal Police Agent, ABIN (Brazilian Intelligence Agency) Technical Specialist.
I read the identification more than once.
And below, I noticed a note in discreet letters:
"You need to calm down. I'm looking for a suspect and have reason to believe he's here right now. Please don't alarm anyone and cooperate, everything will be fine."
I felt a shiver run down my spine. That wasn't common...
I took a deep breath and asked, in a whisper.
Despite the apprehension, I tried to remain skeptical:
"How can I be sure... it's real?" I questioned.
He didn't hesitate.
"With time, I'll prove it. Now, I need you to trust me. And I need your help with two things. Can you do that?"
Noah, as he was supposedly called, inquired. I just watched him, speechless.
He took another paper from his pocket, a photo. And, as soon as my eyes landed on the image, my blood seemed to freeze colder than before, as if a mythical terror had appeared before me.
"Is this man here?" Noah asked calmly. I recognized him instantly. The dark-green stain on his neck was unmistakable. I pointed lightly with my index finger to the stairs upstairs, which were behind Noah.
Noah nodded firmly. He lowered his head quickly, and with a crossed-fingers sign in his right hand. I heard a calm and ethereal voice that produced sound, but did not come from his mouth.
"Alright. We'll do the following: call the police and say Agent Clover is on site, with the possible suspect of case H. And second: evacuate the premises quietly. Get everyone off this floor calmly. No alarms. Don't use any enchantments. Understood?" He nodded to see if I understood.
I just nodded, apprehensive that someone might hear me.
"How many people are up there?" Noah asked. I indicated the number six with my hands.
"Including him," I replied, in a low, almost lost voice.
Noah took off his hat and placed it on the table. I saw his wrists glow, very discreetly, with a light-blue hue.
Some kind of silent magical activation. Without saying anything else, he turned and went up the stairs with precise and controlled steps.
After a few moments, I picked up the phone with trembling fingers, as soon as I saw him finish the first flight of stairs.
"190..." I murmured.
I waited. One ring. Two. The attendant answered:
"Hello, how can I help you? This is the Civil Police".
"Hello? I'm calling from the João Batista Library. An individual entered here a little while ago, claimed to be an Agent Clover, and instructed me to call you and say that he believes the possible suspect of... of case H is here. Can you tell me anything?" I said, in a low voice to avoid attention.
There was a pause. My heart was beating as fast as a drum.
I thought for a moment that the police would debunk all that nonsense and that it was all just a bad joke from that man, but that brief moment ended when the police officer said, firmly:
"Madam, stay calm. And do everything Agent Clover instructs you to do. We are sending backup vehicles right now," the police officer concluded strongly.
I felt a shiver down my spine… As I had never felt before.
"What is happening here?"