The Library of Lives

The air is thick with dust and the smell of decaying wood pulp. Shelving units like fossilised bones stretch beyond the limits of sight. Waterproof dust jackets protect ancient volumes from the desultory clouds which form among the upper shelves. At ground level, strobe-light-lurid mushrooms spill out from cracks between tiles the colour of ageing vellum.This is the Library of Lives. Every human being who exists, who ever has existed, who ever will exist, has their biography recorded here, beginning to end. Some lives take up multiple, thick volumes. Others merit only a pamphlet. And somewhere in here, your own life is waiting to be read.You consult the worn index pinned to a nearby shelf. You’re nearly there now. Crouching in the weak amber light, you find a row of dusty volumes, and begin to run your fingers along the base of the shelf. You move past your own life several times before you identify it, repeating your own name under your breath. Usually you like to hear the sound of…