Do Not Touch

Ali entered the home, took off his shoes, and left his keys on the table. After a long night shift, he wanted to rest. He took a shower and had breakfast. It was time to sleep already, but at this time, his friend Samir called him. He heard his friend’s agitated voice:

-Good morning, Ali. I need you urgently. You need to cover for me at the library. My girl Jessy had an accident. I am going there.

-Ok. I’m coming.

Ali took his keys, slipped on his coat, and dashed out the door, locking it behind him. He stepped down quickly and crossed the corner of the street. He lived nearer the library where Samir worked. He had been living there before his friend was working. But his visit to that library had begun with his friend. Sometimes he went and talked to him, looking for or taking any book. As soon as he entered the door, Samir was leaving. They shook hands, and Samir said:

-The library is at your disposal. But do not touch the shelf covered with glass.

-Don’t worry.

Ali stepped forward and passed through the corridor. The echoing footsteps in the corridor were steady, like the heartbeat of the building itself. There were a few people in the library. Some were looking for books, some were reading at the round table. When he reached Samir’s table, he saw a leather-covered book. When he closed the book, its leather cover gave slightly under his fingertips, as if something aged was still breathing. He put it away and looked at his watch. He didn’t know how much time he would be here. After a long night, his only wish was to sleep. But he promised his friend and was here.

He decided to walk between the rows for the first time. While walking, he let his fingers graze the spines of the books, inhaling the faint must of paper and dust. Each shelf seemed to whisper something of its own, and each did something different to him. Russian novels pressed on his conscience; German books carried the weight of history and reason. French writers asked questions about existence, while American stories moved restlessly, full of roads, freedom, and unfinished dreams. Persian poetry softened the air with love and time, and Arabic stories carried memories from one generation to the next, shaped by silence and spoken word. Japanese books found meaning in stillness and in what remained unsaid, while Latin American tales blurred reality and myth, where time never moved in a straight line. The Turkish shelves felt heavier than the rest — stories of endurance, quiet defiance, and lives marked by loss. And the English section stood quietly beneath it all, built on language itself, shaped by restraint, irony, and a long conversation with the past. The library was no longer just a building; it felt like a map of the human soul.

He paused in the English section and picked up a worn copy of The Remains of the Day, its quiet weight matching something unsettled inside him. As he read, he barely noticed how time slipped away; he only lifted his head when a reader needed help, offering assistance before returning to the page. One of the readers approached him and asked:

-I can’t find the Norwegian literature section. Can you help me, please?

-Yes, of course.

He followed the reader and began to look for the section with him. While looking for it, he heard two staff members’ whispers:

-He shouldn’t have come here.

The whispers hung in the air, more withdrawn than spoken, as if they had been taken back. He became irritated and anxious. He found the Scandinavian literature section, and the reader thanked him. At this time, his eyes caught on the glass shelf. Here was the corner of the library. He remembered Samir’s words. He also remembered that he had never allowed him to approach there. Samir had always tried to distract him from going too close. He was about to walk away when he suddenly turned back and moved closer to the shelf. He stood in front of it and was surprised. Ali hadn’t looked at it carefully before. There weren’t any books inside. Just a few metal plates with names. He began scanning the names, and suddenly, among them, he saw his own: Ali Javad. “Why is his name here? Who has written it?” Curiosity overwhelmed him, and he approached his finger to the glass door, slightly opened it, and touched the plate. The metal plate was cold; not to the touch of human skin, but to the weight of being forgotten. Suddenly, it all began to replay before his eyes, as if it were happening anew: their village… old wooden house… voices… little sister… screams… flickering lamplight… the smell of wet earth… footsteps running… a distant laugh… the creak of floorboards… the warmth of sunlight on his face… The memories did not arrive like a story; they came not as a sentence, but as a blow. He jerked his hand away from the plate and closed its door. He tried to move forward with hesitant steps. He saw the same staff members watching him. He tried to give nothing away.

At the end of the day, one of the members approached and said:

-Would you like to take part in tonight's event?

-Which event?

-The meeting of the people whose memories had been awakened.

-What? How did you know it?

The staff member gave him a book that he was holding in his hand. Ali opened it with wide, astonished eyes and burst into laughter. The book was empty.

At this time, he heard the announcement: “We’re closing in ten minutes.” He looked at the clock. The ticking of the wall clock did not measure time; it seemed to constrict it.

He again looked at the open book in his hand. The page was blank, yet not silent; it was full of everything waiting to be written.

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Epilogue

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The next morning, light filtered through the tall windows, settling gently on the shelves as if nothing had changed. Samir came to the library with a metal plate. He opened the glass shelf and put it there. He stared at it for a while. It was written: “Jessy Smith”.