book,” Gretta said.
The girl shrugged again. “I don’t read much.” Her eyes wandered the dusty shelves. “I really don’t know why I’m here.”
The girl’s hand fluttered in frustration, and Gretta saw the calluses on the tips of her fingers, new ridges carved deep into old scars, and she knew the girl still chased the songs known only to her absent heart.
It was the reason her wandering feet had found the library. Her heart wasn’t broken or discarded like the heart Gretta had found on Mission. This girl’s heart only needed a little help to find its way home. If the girl hadn’t found her way here, in time Gretta would have found her on the street that same way the man made of shadows had found Gretta so many years ago.
“Let me make a suggestion,” Gretta said.
She turned toward the shelves, asking the same silent question she always asked the books when a new patron entered the library: Which one of you will help her?
Gretta’s hands traced along the broken spines and tattered dust jackets until she received a timid answer, and she smiled in return.
She held out the book and the heart it contained, the heart Gretta had sheltered inside herself, to the girl. “This one,” she said, still smiling.
The book had been written in a language Gretta didn’t understand, and the girl looked dubious.
And frightened.
Gretta’s heart sank, its hopeful song tinged now with the mournful tones of a chance abandoned.
Not all those who came to the library took one of Gretta’s books. Only a rare few were brave enough to welcome a heart not their own, even for a little while.
The girl’s thin lips narrowed and her mouth set in a firm line of determination, and she took the book from Gretta with a nod to herself.
Gretta felt the happiness of the hearts in her library warm her back like a sudden ray of sunshine.
The girl’s eyes grew wide, and Gretta knew she’d sensed the song of the timid heart within. The girl’s fingertips formed the chords of a song she’d never played before, and she laughed, a sound of absolute joy.
“Is it mine?” the girl asked, hugging to the book to her chest like a long-lost lover. “Can I keep it?”
“It is only a loan.”
The girl’s smile dimmed, as the smiles of all patrons dimmed when they learned their new joy was fleeting. Gretta wanted to tell them greater happiness awaited, that they would no longer need the books when their own hearts returned, richer and fuller for the time spent away, but each patron needed to discover that on their own.
Just like she had.
Fingertips still sketching chords on the plain back cover of the book, the girl asked the question Gretta knew she would.
“For how long?”
Still smiling, Gretta thought of the timid heart she had found on Mission leaving the library for the first time in the care of someone who appreciated its music, who would play and sing the songs the little heart knew as a way to help her own weary heart find its way home. A journey like that could not be quantified in time but only in terms of accomplishment, a good deed done well.
“As long as you need,” Gretta said. “Take as long as you need.”
4
Gretta found a joyful heart in a music club on Mission.
She paid no entrance fee at the door, her purpose known well to the musician who collected the money, his own mended heart having found its way home after the loan of a book from Gretta’s library. Instead he gave her a hug and handed her an empty book in a language she might have known once in her youth.
“In case you need it,” he said.
She always needed books for the hearts she collected, a sad fact of life in a city still hard on fragile hearts, and she thanked him for the new addition.
She shrugged off her backpack and slipped the empty book inside next to the rest of the books she carried when she walked the streets of the city. Veteran hearts beat within their pages. Strong, capable hearts that had made many
The girl shrugged again. “I don’t read much.” Her eyes wandered the dusty shelves. “I really don’t know why I’m here.”
The girl’s hand fluttered in frustration, and Gretta saw the calluses on the tips of her fingers, new ridges carved deep into old scars, and she knew the girl still chased the songs known only to her absent heart.
It was the reason her wandering feet had found the library. Her heart wasn’t broken or discarded like the heart Gretta had found on Mission. This girl’s heart only needed a little help to find its way home. If the girl hadn’t found her way here, in time Gretta would have found her on the street that same way the man made of shadows had found Gretta so many years ago.
“Let me make a suggestion,” Gretta said.
She turned toward the shelves, asking the same silent question she always asked the books when a new patron entered the library: Which one of you will help her?
Gretta’s hands traced along the broken spines and tattered dust jackets until she received a timid answer, and she smiled in return.
She held out the book and the heart it contained, the heart Gretta had sheltered inside herself, to the girl. “This one,” she said, still smiling.
The book had been written in a language Gretta didn’t understand, and the girl looked dubious.
And frightened.
Gretta’s heart sank, its hopeful song tinged now with the mournful tones of a chance abandoned.
Not all those who came to the library took one of Gretta’s books. Only a rare few were brave enough to welcome a heart not their own, even for a little while.
The girl’s thin lips narrowed and her mouth set in a firm line of determination, and she took the book from Gretta with a nod to herself.
Gretta felt the happiness of the hearts in her library warm her back like a sudden ray of sunshine.
The girl’s eyes grew wide, and Gretta knew she’d sensed the song of the timid heart within. The girl’s fingertips formed the chords of a song she’d never played before, and she laughed, a sound of absolute joy.
“Is it mine?” the girl asked, hugging to the book to her chest like a long-lost lover. “Can I keep it?”
“It is only a loan.”
The girl’s smile dimmed, as the smiles of all patrons dimmed when they learned their new joy was fleeting. Gretta wanted to tell them greater happiness awaited, that they would no longer need the books when their own hearts returned, richer and fuller for the time spent away, but each patron needed to discover that on their own.
Just like she had.
Fingertips still sketching chords on the plain back cover of the book, the girl asked the question Gretta knew she would.
“For how long?”
Still smiling, Gretta thought of the timid heart she had found on Mission leaving the library for the first time in the care of someone who appreciated its music, who would play and sing the songs the little heart knew as a way to help her own weary heart find its way home. A journey like that could not be quantified in time but only in terms of accomplishment, a good deed done well.
“As long as you need,” Gretta said. “Take as long as you need.”
4
Gretta found a joyful heart in a music club on Mission.
She paid no entrance fee at the door, her purpose known well to the musician who collected the money, his own mended heart having found its way home after the loan of a book from Gretta’s library. Instead he gave her a hug and handed her an empty book in a language she might have known once in her youth.
“In case you need it,” he said.
She always needed books for the hearts she collected, a sad fact of life in a city still hard on fragile hearts, and she thanked him for the new addition.
She shrugged off her backpack and slipped the empty book inside next to the rest of the books she carried when she walked the streets of the city. Veteran hearts beat within their pages. Strong, capable hearts that had made many
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