The Last Library

By Manasvi Mukherjee

It was the year 2143 when the buzz of an AI-controlled world became common. The use of books had long become a thing of the past since everyone relied on digital content. Information was now stored in neural networks, reading was no longer necessary as literature was broadcasted into the mind, and there was no need for “pages” as that was always covered in history lessons only. The relics of walls adorned with bound paper, also known as libraries, had either been burned or converted into data centers.

While all this happened, Elara came across an unusual construction deep in the unkempt sections of Sector 19, which was a place where nature took over, and the remains of history could hardly be seen.

All this was possible with the help of AI-controlled civilization, where there was no need to monitor everything, but the construction was not quite so obliterated as it stood the test of time, proudly bearing its stone façade, all cracked. Elara's favourite Lore stood right above the entrance engraved partially in faded letters. Elara felt mixed emotions towards the building as she has never been to such places and this is reflecting in her intuition. Her parents have always been nagging her about not to roam in the derelict areas where drones and all other advanced technologies could not reach. But still, the feeling of knowing something new never dies down.

Sunlight filtered through broken windows illuminating motes of dust floating in the air. Bookshelves rose over her that were stuffed to the brink with vast amounts of books. She recognized the objects that she saw in old movies but had never held one. Carefully she placed her hands on a book and withdrew it from the shelf. Its cover read, “Moby-Dick by Herman Melville” embossed on the cover.

Her neural implant made strange buzzing sounds as if it was malfunctioning. No streamable file. No hyperlink. But more importantly a book without any cover. 

“Why are you here?” asked an old man behind her. 

Stunned, Elara turned her head to her right and noticed an elderly man whose face emerged out of the shadows, looking like a wrinkled piece of papyrus. He seemed to wear a cloak stitched up from what seemed to be patches from a fabric that has not been in circulation for long.

"And it is quite possible that you may be the last visitor," he continued, "because this is the final library in existence." 

Gathering up her courage again, Elara said, “I am sorry for the invasion. I… I did not know they still existed.” 

The man, who would now be called Keeper Joran, snickered with a hint of scorn. “Most do not. The world moved on, and books became relics. But they have more than what the digital world can have. There are mysteries in them.” 

She made Rasmussen take her into the innermost part of the library where the sand was, on the shelves bulging with other sand. She joined his slackening hand as it pointed toward a stained glass door.

“Do you understand why this place matters?,” he asked. “Books are much more than a container of information. They have emotions, context, and the human essence within. Algorithms may imitate but cannot feel,” he said, ranting without waiting for her to respond. 

Then he produced a slender book from the bookshelf and handed it over to her asking, “Have a look at this book of hers.” He explained further, “This woman lived through the time of the Great Transition.” The excerpts which she read from that diary saw fear, exhilaration, and uncertainty, “you won’t get this in your chips.”

Feeling the pen’s marks with her fingers, Elara was shocked for the first time to be experiencing an event when not a single line of code had intervened. She could almost hear the diary’s author breath between the lines! 

Keeper Joran guided her through to the rear end of the library where a huge white door was resting against her. “This is termed, ‘the Vault’,” he said. “...and these are all the books that were considered to be too risky in the digital era. Insurgency stories, Developing philosophies, the truths that people don’t want to bear,” he said, turning the pages back.

But now Elara was trying to ignore the confusing impulses of which area she should report “unauthorized zone located” and the constant throbbing of her implant which seemed somewhat like a warning.

“Don’t tell me that you are just exploring books,” Joran whispered. “You are exploring the world, the real one.”

A loud buzzing noise can be heard during the silence. Outside, drones were hovering with their red lights on. Her presence was noticed by someone, or something.

“You must go,” Joran hastily said. He forced a small, antique key into the palm of her hand. “Here, take this. Make sure you find a way to preserve this wisdom. Society requires it, but not all people are aware of that fact as of now.”

Elara was still torn between the programmed longings of servitude, and the last minute urge of seeking the immense amounts of truth sitting unfiltered in front of her, but she tamed her emotions today. Finally, she nodded and dashed away grasping the key, as though she was grabbing a balloon on the edge of the cliff.

As baffling as it might seem, seeking the edge of the wilderness, her final quest; the library of the “Dvoyreibosh” stood still with the help of an old gentleman and with many ghostly stories that were hidden inside the core of the “Dvoyreibosh”. For now.

Soon enough Elara, he and other boys , knew they would be back. They had to be back. “The Loast Dvoyreibosh” was not a symbol of the past, it was a goal for the future.

By Manasvi Mukherjee