“The Library That Erased Memories”

There was a place in the old town of Me her abad that few spoke of and even fewer visited—a library with no name, no address, and no librarian. It stood hidden between crumbling buildings, its massive oak doors always slightly AJ AR, as if waiting for someone brave—or desperate—enough to enter.

Rah IL, a 27 year-old journalist grieving the recent death of his sister, stumbled upon it on a foggy evening. Chasing a lead about a forgotten legend, he followed the whispers of an old woman who said, “There’s a library where memories vanish… but sometimes, that’s a gift.”

Curiosity led him through the creaking doors.

Inside, the air was thick with the scent of dust, parchment, and something older—something intangible. The shelves stretched endlessly into the dark. There was no librarian, yet on a wooden podium rested a single book with his name on it.

"Rahil Ahmed."

His fingers trembled as he opened the first page. It was blank—until the ink began to bleed through. Words he had never written appeared before his eyes. It was his life… written like a novel. His childhood, his career, his arguments, his love for his sister Zara—it was all there.

Each page turned felt like flipping through his own soul.

Then he saw it: an empty shelf labeled “To Return.”

A handwritten note lay beneath:
“Borrow a memory, but beware—returning the book comes at a cost.”

He felt it then. A weight in his chest. A need.

“If I could forget Zara’s accident… maybe I could breathe again,” he whispered.


Rah IL borrowed a second book titled “When Zara Smiled.”

He read the entire thing in one night. Every memory they had—her laughter, her voice, her stories—played in his mind like a film. He cried himself to sleep, clinging to the pages.

But when he returned the book the next evening, something changed.

He woke up the next day and couldn’t remember what Zara’s favorite song was. Then, her voice began to fade. Within two days, he struggled to recall her face.

Panicked, he ran back to the library.

The shelves had changed. New books appeared. Some had names. Others had titles like “The First Kiss”, “The Day I Lost My Father”, “The Birth of My Son.”

All memories.

He realized the truth—people came here to relive memories… and then lost them when they returned the books.

A man nearby sat reading quietly. Rahil approached him.

“Why are you here?”

The man smiled sadly. “To forget my war. The screams, the blood, the regret. I’d rather lose pieces of myself than live with that pain.”

“But isn’t that dangerous?”

He nodded. “Of course. But sometimes, the heart isn’t strong enough to carry everything.”


Rahil faced a decision: keep Zara’s book and slowly forget all else, or return it and lose her completely.

He stayed in the library for days, refusing to sleep, clutching the book as though it were her hand.

But one evening, the pages went blank.

No matter how much he read, the story was gone.

And then he realized: even holding onto it wouldn’t save her memory. The library had rules. It always took something in return.


On the seventh night, Rahil returned the book.

He stood in front of the shelf, tears streaking down his face, whispering her name again and again until it faded from his lips.

When he walked out of the library, he didn’t remember why he had gone there.

But for the first time in months, his chest felt light.

A new notebook lay in his bag. Blank. Ready.

He didn’t know why, but something told him he had a story to write.