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The door opened slightly and then closed again.

“Sh-h-h. He’s asleep,” his mum whispered.

“Nothing left in his bed this time, huh?” his dad said, half-questioning.

“Nothing,” she confirmed.

“Are you sure? Let me see.”

“I’m sure. I told you! Let’s go.”

“Good. That’s not what a real boy should be interested in. I’m tired of it, honestly. I mean, if he reads about sports, that’s fine, I guess.”

“Okay. You’re right,” she said, as the sound of their footsteps faded away.

This small fragment of his childhood had followed Leo for years.

And now, riding the bus and watching people hurry along the streets, he remembered hiding books under the blanket at night, his fingers resting on the rough cover.

He got off at the next stop and headed towards a narrow, almost invisible entrance, lost among bright, shouting ads and other doors. Above it was a faded sign in small letters: Library.

The doorbell chimed as he pushed it.

“We’re closing,” said the librarian bluntly — a dyed-hair woman with old-fashioned glasses and heavy make-up.

“I came as fast as I could after training,” Leo said. “Please.”

She paused.

“You have ten minutes,” she said. “And remember — only three books. That’s the new rule.”

Leo nodded.

He walked along the stacks with that familiar feeling.

He was alone.

Just like last week.

Just like a month ago.

When he checked out the books, he asked, “What time can I come on Monday?”

“We’re open at eleven. We’re closing at five,” she said. “But it will be the last day.”

“Is there another library somewhere?” Leo asked again, already anticipating the answer.

“No, young man. As far as I know, this one is the last in the city — if not in the country.”

“But you’ll lose your job,” he said, trying to keep the conversation going.

“I thought I would regret it,” she replied, “but honestly, it’s boring here, isn’t it? You’re the only reader. Besides, I’ve already got a new offer.”

“Have a good weekend,” Leo said, out of politeness.

“Oh, that’s sweet. Same to you,” the woman replied.

As he stepped outside, he almost bumped into two young people, talking and gesturing.

“See? No reason to keep them,” one of them said, pointing at the door Leo had just come through. “They just swallow taxpayers’ money.”

Leo looked at them, the strange feeling inside him growing heavier.

The next day he had only three classes at school: Entertaining Speaking, Politics, and Chemistry. The first two felt dull — though he knew they could have been interesting if taught differently.

Chemistry was special.

That day they were working on an artificial volcano, and it looked genuinely impressive. Mr Knewman, their teacher, was passionate about the subject and involved every student in the discussion. Unlike the others, he always kept a few books in his lab and sometimes even lent them to Leo.

“Mr Knewman,” Leo said after the bell rang for the break, “have you heard anything new?”

“No,” the teacher replied with a sigh. “Unfortunately, bookshops and libraries are becoming part of the past. No one is interested any more. They’re no longer needed in education, science, or anywhere else. I tried to find at least one working bookshop or library in the country. The one in our city seems to be the last.”

“On Monday night it’s closing forever,” Leo said. “What then? Where on earth am I supposed to find books to read?”

Mr Knewman shrugged. “Try adjusting to the new reality. You might find some at dumps, but I wouldn’t recommend it. Poisoned air and all that.”

Leo looked away.

“Do you remember when everyone used to go to the library?” he asked, trying to check his own memories. “I first came there on my sixth birthday. There were always at least a few more people — and many more on Fridays after school. How did it happen that all my library friends stopped coming?”

“No one notices when change becomes irreversible,” Mr Knewman said, taking off his glasses. “Science is about standard answers now. Questions slow things down.”

The sound of running boys came from behind the door.

“Hey, mate!” Tim, his friend, came in from the corridor and pulled Leo’s sleeve. “Lunchtime! Why bother learning if we’ll forget everything anyway, like our parents did?”

“To forget everything,” Mr Knewman said, half-serious, “you first have to know everything. Science actually helps with that.”

“Huh?” Tim looked lost. “Anyway, let’s go.”

Leo followed, smiling.

After classes were over, the warm air outside had grown more restless, the wind tugging at banners and loose papers along the street.

Leo followed this route at least twice a week. He liked basketball and even played with his team at regional tournaments. It felt good to be part of something well organised and friendly — to share the rhythm, the routine, the simple sense of being together.

Books — his strange habit — mattered the least there.

Turning from the big street towards the sports hall, Leo wondered what games had been like centuries or millennia ago. There were videos, of course. You could always find something in online simulations or games. But without books, without written records, how could anyone be sure those stories were true?

His friend Sairam, who was into history, claimed that modern science could verify the past by analysing thousands of video sources, relying on SAI — Standardised Artificial Intelligence — now embedded across all major institutions. He also mentioned a few remaining excavation sites, though hardly anyone worked there any more.

Training was fun, as usual.

They split into two teams and played well. Leo sank a couple of three-pointers and a few other shots. Sairam finished several attacks after Leo’s passes. He celebrated each one with a wild dance, as if he had just become an Olympic champion. A couple of times, it made the opposing team lose the ball from laughing.

After the cheerful noise of the locker room — smelling of sweat and rubber — Leo said goodbye to his teammates and headed towards the city centre, where Nara had promised to wait for him.

She was usually on time.

That day, Leo saw her running towards him after ten minutes of waiting. Nara smelled of perfume and strawberries.

“You won’t believe what just happened,” she said. “I was supposed to come earlier, but the hover-tram stopped, and we were stuck up there for twenty minutes!”

“Poor you. Why?”

“I checked the news,” she said. “They said it was happening all along the line. No one knew why. And then we just started moving again, as if nothing had happened.”

“But did the driver explain the reason?” Leo asked. “That shouldn’t happen, right?”

“What for?” Nara shrugged. “In the end, everything went back to normal. Why question it? I’m sure the driver himself had no idea.”

They walked on, talking about this and that. When they entered the park, Nara announced,

“I’ve made up my mind. I want to become a quality inspector at a factory.”

Leo nodded.

“Do you want to know why?”

“Sure,” he replied. “Why? Isn’t it a bit boring?”

“That’s the point!” Nara exclaimed. “There’s almost nothing to do. You just do whatever you want until you hear an alarm. And do you know how often that happens?”

“I am officially curious.”

“Once a month! And you’re paid regularly.” Her voice sounded cheerful, as if she had discovered the secret of eternal wealth. “Or, in the worst case, once or twice a week.”

“Sounds adventurous,” Leo said, trying to tease her.

She didn’t get it.

“The only library is closing next week,” he added. “That’s not cool.”

Nara looked at him with a hint of surprise. “It’s strange. I mean — your obsession with books. You’re probably the weirdest person I know. And that’s why I like you.” She smiled and pecked his cheek.

“How are you going to learn quality control at the factory?” Leo asked. “Are there instruction books?”

“Huh? Why?” She looked genuinely puzzled.

“I mean,” he continued, “what’s the process of learning?”

“Well… who cares? Training sessions, games, simulations. Everything is standardised, I guess.”

“And if something breaks down?” Leo insisted.

“There’s an alarm and an instruction,” she said, as simply as always.

“And if there’s no instruction?”

Nara laughed. “Are you crazy? There are instructions for everything.”

In the evening, Leo was passing the living room when he heard his mother’s voice:

“Ken, turn on the programme, please! I’m coming!”

“Sure,” his dad replied.

It was an arts programme.

“What do you see here?” the host asked a participant, pointing at an abstract painting.

“Well… let me think,” an old man said. “There’s a white part. And here, on the right, it gets grey. More than that — you can see many curves. Finally — a dark corner. Very dark. But!” He brightened. “See? There’s an orange spot. It’s… kind of shining!”

“Great explanation,” the host said with satisfaction. “And what do you feel? Or what is this picture about, in your view?”

The man shook his head. “Two questions. Against the rules.”

“My mistake! You’re absolutely right,” the host laughed. “Let’s keep the last one. What is this picture about, in your view?”

“Well…” The man paused. “I’m pretty sure it’s about colours.”

The audience applauded.

“And what do these colours symbolise?”

“Well…” It was almost visible how he tried to squeeze a thought from his brain. “They’re changing from side to side. I guess.”

“Maybe it’s about changes in life?” the host suggested.

“You’ve read my mind! Changes in life!” the man said with a beaming smile.

The audience applauded again.

“He’s smart, Aya,” Ken said. “Nice explanation, don’t you think?”

“I’m definitely not an expert in art,” she replied calmly.

“But you could be,” Leo said, appearing from behind the wall. “If you read a few books about it. Or at least watched some videos.”

“Ah! Caught listening,” his dad said with a grin. “So — how was training today, Leo?”

“Yeah. Not bad.”

There wasn’t much else to talk about.

Before going to sleep, Leo sent a voice message to his uncle, who was a scientist.

“Do you have any new inventions?” he asked.

The reply came after a while.

“Surely we do. Just recently we made a gadget that combined a phone and a wallet. Also, we improved parts of devices — made them different colours and sometimes more reliable. But if you mean a real breakthrough — no, we don’t have anything interesting.”

The boy thought for a moment and sent another message: “Do any researchers use books? I know you did.”

This time the answer came almost right away.

“I did. But I don’t know anyone who uses them now. What for? Educational videos exist for every topic, every subject.”

“Don’t you want to make an invention?”

“Well. I actually did. But everything that goes beyond the standard is usually not appreciated and is never implemented. Still, I’m fine with that. Everything works well, right?”

Leo felt very lonely. He wished him goodbye.

He wanted to browse the web again, but changed his mind. Any search using the words “book” or “library” returned results related to history or statistics. Nothing current. He tried at least once a week, still holding on to some hope — but always in vain.

On Monday, after returning the books to the library, he stepped outside with a hollow feeling and stood for a second in uncertainty. Near the door, on the pavement, he noticed a leaflet. What caught his attention was a picture of a book.

Leo picked it up. The leaflet looked old. It showed only a small map of a nearby green space, with a bench marked on it. He decided to go.

On the way, he read the text printed in tiny letters. It turned out that the bench was meant to be a meeting place for readers who wanted to protect the culture of books, reading, and writing. The meetings were supposed to take place every Saturday…

Well. He still had a week ahead.

Leo kept reading and almost laughed at his own foolishness. Among the tiny letters, he noticed a date. The leaflet had been printed thirty-five years ago. He hadn’t even been born then.

Most likely, it was supposed to be in a rubbish bin.

Still, he decided to take a look at that place.

It was a warm, slightly dull day. Leo found the bench and sat down, knowing that no book lover had come here for more than thirty years.

His phone buzzed.

A message from Nara. A meme. A black-and-white picture of a man with a desperate expression, his palms turned upward, and a caption:

No instruction. No help. Wild times.

It should have been funny in her view. He knew what she liked.

But…

Leo thought that he was in exactly the same state. No instruction. The difference was that he knew it was normal — to be uncertain, to be creative, and to find his own solution.

Two women holding coffee cups from a nearby kiosk sat down on the bench next to him. They were talking emotionally, whispering as if trying not to attract attention, yet they sounded loud enough for Leo to catch every word.

“I’ve told you, youngsters are often weird. Thank the universe, my kids are quite normal. They like normal school subjects and have chosen a good, simple profession for the future.”

“Oh, lucky you!” the other woman agreed. “My son is already a young adult. He’s mostly into sports and shows — quite nice and profitable too. But…” She paused deliberately. “Do you remember my school friend Litta? She lives far away now, and we rarely talk. In her last message she said her son had been obsessed with… books.”

“Oh no! Poor boy. So old-fashioned!”

“Exactly! But getting into society — clubs, hanging out with normal classmates — seems to help. He’s been reading less and less lately.”

Leo wondered whether he really was strange — or whether it was the world around him.

He didn’t have an answer.

A few days slowly passed by…

One evening, sitting on his bed, Leo received a strange notification. It was a video message from an unknown sender. He hesitated before answering. When he finally tapped the screen, a wide smile appeared on his face.

“Hi, Leo!” Emilia, his cousin, waved at him from the screen. “I haven’t called you in ages. Surprised? My number has changed a couple of times already.”

She laughed.

“How are you doing? Still obsessed with those strange books?”

She paused, then leaned closer to the camera, making one of her familiar gestures — half-joking, half-serious — as if she were about to share something important.

“Actually, that’s why I’m calling. I’ve got a new classmate. His name is Jonah. And the first thing he said when he introduced himself was that”—she lowered her voice to a whisper—“he really misses libraries!”

Emilia smiled.

“Can you imagine?” she said, back in her normal voice. “You’re not the only one, you know. And now — even though it sounds funny — it feels even stranger.”

She shrugged and smiled lightly, as she always did.

“But maybe it’s okay. Who knows?”

“Have a good night.”

She turned the camera off.

Leo put the phone aside and lay still for a moment, listening to the familiar sounds of the city outside his window.

A sheet of paper lay beside him. It was a list of names — people he had wanted to ask about books. Almost all of them were crossed out with a blue marker.

He wanted to reply with a text message, as he usually did.

But he hesitated… wondering whether it was better to send a meme.