The Last Library Card

The first time Lena saw the library card, it was lying on the sidewalk outside the closed doors of the Ridley Street Library.

It was strange—she’d walked this route to work for years and never once seen anything on that cracked stretch of pavement but dead leaves and cigarette butts. But this… this was different.

The card was old, laminated edges peeling, the kind of thing they stopped making when everything went digital. The name printed in faded type was Margaret F. Hale.

And in small, careful handwriting underneath: “If found, return to me before October 12.”

No year.

Lena slipped it into her coat pocket.

She worked at a coffee shop across from the library, which had been shuttered for over a decade after a funding cut. The brick building stood like a ghost—windows dusty, a “Closed Until Further Notice” sign curling in its frame.

At her shift’s end, Lena couldn’t resist. She crossed the street, library card in hand, and peered through the glass. Shadows pooled in the corners. Something about the silence inside felt thick, like it had weight.

That night, she dreamed of a woman standing between shelves, holding out her hands as if waiting for Lena to give something back.

By the next morning, the dream clung to her like static. She found herself googling Margaret F. Hale Ridley Street Library. The only hit was a decades-old newspaper clipping:

“Local librarian Margaret Hale missing after library closure announcement. Police suspect she left town; friends insist she would never abandon her post.”

The article was dated October 12, 1995.

Lena’s shift dragged. Every time she slid a latte across the counter, she felt the weight of the library card in her pocket.

At closing time, rain began to fall—thin, needling drops. On impulse, she crossed the street again, this time trying the library’s side door. It creaked open.

The air inside was damp, smelling faintly of paper and something sweeter—lavender, maybe. Her footsteps echoed as she moved between tall, dust-coated shelves. She didn’t know what she was looking for until she saw it:

A desk at the far end, an old brass lamp still plugged in. And behind it, a woman.

She was maybe in her sixties, hair pinned in a tidy bun, cardigan buttoned to the neck.

“You found it,” the woman said, her voice low and warm.

Lena’s throat tightened. “You’re… Margaret Hale?”

The woman nodded, smiling faintly. “You’ve brought my card back. Not many people return things anymore.”

“I—” Lena swallowed. “You’ve been missing for thirty years.”

Margaret’s smile didn’t falter. “Not missing. Just waiting.”

The library seemed to breathe around them, the air subtly shifting.

“What were you waiting for?” Lena asked.

Margaret tilted her head. “For the right person to check out the last book.”

“What book?”

Margaret reached under the desk and placed a volume on the counter. Its cover was plain, the title embossed in gold: The Last Visitor.

The book was already open to the final page. Lena saw her own name printed there. And beneath it—today’s date.

Her pulse thudded in her ears. “What is this?”

“It’s your turn,” Margaret said softly. “You bring the book back, or the story ends here.”

Lena looked up, but the desk was empty.

The lamp was off.

The library was silent.

She ran to the door, but when she stepped outside, it wasn’t the rainy night she’d left behind—it was bright daylight. Her coffee shop was gone. The street signs were different.

She clutched the book to her chest, the library card tucked between its pages.

On the inside cover, someone had written:

“If found, return before October 12.”