The Library of Regrets

writer Name : Nadeem Shah

The rain came in heavy sheets, slicing the dusk like liquid glass. Jacob Bennett ducked beneath the awning of an unfamiliar building that hadn't been there the day before. It stood between two worn-down shops like it had grown out of the cracks in the cobblestone. No signs. No windows. Just a carved wooden door with strange symbols etched into its frame.

Curious—and soaked—Jacob pushed the door open. A bell chimed overhead. The sound echoed in a way that felt too big for the small space.

Inside, the scent of old paper and something older—dusty wood, perhaps time itself—wrapped around him. Towering bookshelves reached far beyond the ceiling, disappearing into a soft golden haze. Ladders floated silently between the rows, drifting on their own accord. The place felt infinite, yet personal, like it had been waiting for him.

At the front desk sat a man in a long dark coat, spectacles perched on the end of his nose. He looked up without surprise, as though he’d been expecting Jacob.

"Welcome to the Library of Regrets," the man said.

“The what?” Jacob laughed nervously, brushing water off his coat.

The librarian stood, offering a slight nod. "Every book in this library contains one of your regrets. Every misstep, every word unsaid, every door left unopened... catalogued, recorded, preserved.”

Jacob looked around in disbelief. “You’re kidding.”

“I do not joke,” said the librarian, adjusting his glasses. “This is not a place for amusement. This is a place for reckoning.”

Jacob felt the air shift. It wasn’t a trick. The books whispered. They knew him.

“And what am I supposed to do here?” he asked quietly.

“You may read. You may reflect. And you may choose one—just one—to rewrite.”

Jacob wandered the aisles for what felt like hours. The shelves were arranged not by alphabet or genre but by emotion. He passed through Anger, Fear, Longing, Shame, and finally stopped at Love.

A thick, cracked spine called to him. He pulled it down.

The title read: “Emma: The Day You Let Her Go.”

He opened it.

The pages came alive with memory. Emma’s laughter echoed in the margins. The scent of her lavender perfume wafted from the parchment. He relived the argument. His pride. Her tears. The silence that followed. The ring he never offered. The flight she took alone. The years that passed with nothing but “what ifs.”

Jacob closed the book and clutched it to his chest.

Could he fix that?

He kept reading.

A slimmer volume titled “Not Visiting Dad in the Hospital” hit him like a punch. He flipped through pages stained with guilt and watched himself ignore the calls, tell himself "next week", and then sit by a grave whispering apologies.

Another: “Quitting Painting.”

Inside, a canvas of lost dreams. The competition he never entered. The talent left unused. A gallery filled with ghosts of what could have been.

More followed:

“Bullying Tommy Morris in High School.”

“Turning Away the Homeless Man in 2013.”

“Lying About Why You Left.”

Each book pulled at him. Each memory clawed at his ribs.

Until he found the smallest volume on the shelf. It was almost hidden, tucked between two massive tomes in the “Fear” section.

It simply said: “Not Holding Her Hand.”

The memory hit him before he even opened it.

His daughter. Lily.

Six years old. Hospital bed. Machines beeping. Eyes wide with fear as the doctor wheeled her toward surgery.

And him—so scared of falling apart in front of her—he just smiled and waved. He didn’t take her hand.

She looked back one last time before they turned the corner. Waiting.

And he did nothing.

He never forgave himself.

He sat in the aisle, the book trembling in his hands.

The librarian found him like that.

“Have you chosen?” he asked.

Jacob looked up, his voice hoarse. “I don’t know.”

“Most don’t. One change ripples through everything. A regret undone can heal—or destroy. Are you certain?”

“No,” Jacob said, “but I have to try.”

The librarian nodded solemnly. “Then speak your choice.”

Jacob held up the small book. “This one. I want to hold her hand.”

The librarian closed his eyes. The book pulsed with light. The words inside unraveled like threads, fading into nothing.

When Jacob awoke, he was lying in his bed, morning sun peeking through the curtains. Everything looked the same, but something felt different.

Downstairs, laughter.

He rushed down in disbelief.

“Lily?”

There she was—older now, maybe twelve—sitting at the table, spooning cereal into her mouth, humming a song. Healthy. Alive.

She looked up and smiled. “Morning, Dad.”

His knees nearly buckled. “You… you’re here…”

“Uh, yeah,” she said, frowning. “Are you okay?”

He knelt beside her, brushing a hand over her cheek like it might disappear. “I’m just… so glad you’re here.”

She blinked at him. “You were with me the whole time, remember? That surgery when I was little? You held my hand the whole way.”

Jacob swallowed hard.

He didn’t remember the new version of that day, but she did.

Later, when Lily was off at school, Jacob sat in his studio—the one he thought he gave up long ago. Paintings filled the walls. Canvases half-finished. Apparently, in this version of his life, he kept painting.

On the shelf beside his brushes sat a letter. No envelope. Just a folded page.

In the neat handwriting of the librarian:

“You chose well. One regret can shape a lifetime. But remember: even a rewritten life holds regrets. Use them not as anchors, but as stars to guide you forward.”

—The Librarian

Jacob smiled faintly and opened a new canvas.

This life wouldn’t be perfect.

But it would be his.

And this time… he would remember to hold on.