Bye, Lonely man
Chapter 1
“Look at the mess you made!” A man in a suit and tie shouts angrily, leaving the man beside him falling into silence.
The silent man who is experiencing the storm of criticism from his boss is called George, who has worked here for five years. Just as a saying goes, misfortunes never come singly. Last night, he just broke up with his girlfriend Clara due to his busy work.
Seeing the distorted face of the boss with anger, George was lost in thought. He realized that he had learned and received nothing but the boring and repeated work during the previous five years. Oh, he also received unreasonable curse from the boss.
“My life is so blank. It's not what I want.” George sighed in his thought.
“Why no words? Are you a puppet?” The boss felt as if his anger had been punched into cotton. Embarrassed and discomfited, the boss informed George to leave. “You can go and needn't come here no longer.”
Stepping out of the gate of company, George felt surprisingly relaxed. He could no longer see the tiring work and the mad boss. It's a great day worth Celebrating! George bought a can of beer and wandered towards home.
Stepping near the house, George gradually felt something strange. Why so many stuff piled up at his door, and, why those were so familiar?
He was kicked out by his landlord!
After finding a cheap hotel to sleep, George felt everything today was like a nightmare. No girlfriend, no work, no home, and next coming one is no money. It seemed that everything he owned before had all gone away, leaving the lonely George staying blanklyand vaguely.
Lying in the bed, George let out a long sigh, “I might continue to be lonely.”
Chapter 2
George didn't know exactly whether he fell asleep in the whole night. But he knew it's time to check outbecause it was already broad daylight outside.
Wandering along the strange street, George tried to find something. But… what is it? A job or a house? He had no targets, neither any wishes.
Suddenly, a posted notice grabbed George's attention. It is written that “Library book arrangement, with food and accommodation provided”.
What a suitable job it is! It reminded George of the days when he was still a naughty boy. The little boy had great enthusiasm about reading and had created a few excellent works. But when he grew up and entered senior high school, he had little time to read or to write. Not to mention after going to work.
“Maybe I can find my hobby back in this job.” There was a sort of faint expectation in his heart.
George called the telephone number in the post and be told to come tomorrow morning.Everything was so smooth and he got this job without extra effort.
Neatly suited,George stood at the gate of the library,satisfied with the outfit.
The library looks very old and a bit dilapidated, with sparse trees surrounding it. Some of the brown paint on the walls has peeled off, making it look like an elderly person.
There were hardly any people here, so George didn't expect anyone to greet him. So he walked in by himself.
Finding nobody in the front desk,George took a visit himself.
So many books here!George found a number of rare books which he was eager to read but didn't find before.And when stepping towards the last few bookshelves,he started to tidy up the bookshelf actively,just like he returned to the book–passionate childhood.
“Good job,man.”A strange voice appeared behind him.
George turned around,and found the origin of the voice.It's an old gentleman whose face carried a slight smile.
George smiled back.
"Are you the librarian here?"The gentleman asked.
"Hmm...Almost but not totally,"George Scratched his head,"I'm the newcomer.To be precise,It's the first day I come here."
"Oh,it's you who called me yesterday.Welcome,dear guy!"The old gentleman seemed to think of something all of a sudden,giving a warm hug to George.
It turned out that he was the person in charge of the library.George thought he was very suitable for the library.
"What should I do then?"
"Good question,man.What should you do is rearranging the books on the shelves and..."
George bent down a little,ready to listen to the rest commands.
"And I forgot,"The old gentleman grinned form ear to ear."That's fine!I always forgot something.So just do what you think a librarian should do and you'll do a good job."
"All right."It seemed like that the man had no intention to teach anything.George shrugged his shoulders,starting exploring on his own.
George spent rest of the day sweeping the floor,rearranging books,categorizing and labeling books.Everything was peaceful.
Time flied fast.When the warm light of sunset touched George's face,the old gentleman appeared again.
"That's all for today's work. You can go home and have a rest，"The gentleman smiled,turning his eyes to the windows,"If you have spare time,I really recommend that you go and watch the sunset."
Following the eyesight of gentleman,George saw the sky colored by the mixture of orange and red.He was so captivated by the beautiful scenery that he held his breath.
"Good suggestion,sir."
After saying goodbye to the gentleman,George paced to the bench outside the library and sat down, watching the quiet yet magnificent sunset. It wasn't until the last trace of the setting sun vanished from the sky that he stretched, but still remained motionless for a long time.
He hasn't seen the sunset for a long time.
After going to work, he just rushes along the same route every day in a hurry, and after work, he only wants to rest. The busy work leaves him with no energy to look up and appreciate the beautiful scenery around.
George sighed and got up, then walked into the library.
Chapter 3
With the morning sunlight streaming in, George woke up on the small bed in the library.
The first thing that greeted him was the faint scent of old paper which was mixed with a hint of pine from the wooden book shelves, far better than the musty and terrible smell of the hotel.
He stretched, and his elbow touched a thin book onto the bedside table; its cover was worn, with the title The Little Prince faded almost beyond recognition.
George picked it up, and a crumpled note fluttered out. The shaky handwriting can be read: “To the one who love the sunset.Some stories are meant to be created and shared, not hidden.”
George frowned slightly, wondering if it was left by the old gentleman. But before he could think more, the sound of a kettle whistling drifted from the window outside.
He found the old gentleman standing by the window, pouring hot water into two chipped mugs. “Sleep well?” the gentleman asked, handing him a mug of tea that smelled of chamomile. “I left that book for you.I found it tucked behind a shelf of history books last week. Someone who stops to watch the sunset might like it.”
George took a sip; the tea warmed his chest.
“Thank you. That book reminded me of the childhood. I used to write stories,too;when I was a kid.” It was the first time he mentioned his old hobby to anyone in years.Reminding these memories is a bit of...relieved and shame-making.
The old gentleman’s eyes lit up. “Oh?Great job! Then I think youwill love the back room.We have got a box of old student essays from the 1980s. Kids wrote about their dreams, their lives and whatever they wanted to write… just like you mighthave done once.” He patted George’s shoulder. “Finish your tea, then go to have a look. The books can wait an hour.”
George did as he was told. The back room was a tiny space, filled with dusty boxes, but the one the old gentleman mentioned was on a low shelf, labeled “Young Voices.”
He opened it, and inside were stacks of lined paper.Some of them were dog–eared and their edges were yellowed. One essay caught his eyes—it’s a girl’s handwriting, neat and curly, about her dream wanting to be a librarian “so I can help people find books that feel like home.”George smiled sightly.
He sat on the floor, reading one after another, until the sun climbed higher.
When he finally stood up, his legs were stiff, but his chest felt light;lighter than it had been in decade of years. He realized he wasn’t just arranging books here; he was surrounded by pieces of people’s hearts, by stories that hadn’t been forgotten.
In the afternoon, a woman in a red coat walked into the library.
She hesitated by the door, then asked George, “Do you have any poetry collections? My mom used to love them, but I can’t remember the title.” George grinned.Hehad sorted three boxes of poetry that morning. He led her to the shelf, and when he pulled out a tattered copy of Leaves of Grass,her eyes lit up instantly, glistening with a faint sheen of tears.
She stroked gently the frayed cover of the book with her finger, as if touching a long-lost memory. “This is it,” she whisperedwith soft voice. “My mom used to read Whitman’s lines to me before gong to bed.She said his words felt like ‘the wind talking to the grass.’”
George leaned against the bookshelf, watching her flip to a dog-eared page where a pressed leaf was tucked between the lines. The sunlight streamed through the window, shining the book and the hairline of who was reading. “She must have loved this very much,” George said gently.
The woman nodded, brushing a tear from her cheek with a small smile.
“I thought Iwill never find a copy like this. The new editions feel… too shinyand perfect, you know? No bits of coffee stains nor folded corners that tell a lot of memories.” She paused, then looked up at Georgewith gratitude.
“Thank you. It’s not just a book,it’s something which as if brought pieces of memories of her back today.”
When she left, the bell above the door jingled softly.George felt something jingled gently as well.
George glanced at the old gentleman who was wiping a shelf nearby with a rag. The gentleman gave him a quiet smile, one that held no need for wordsbut expressed everything.
George picked up the next box of unsorted books, but this time, his hands moved slowerand more carefully,just like he was handling precioustreasure.
By dusk, the library’s windows were painted pink and orange,it’s the same sunset colors George had stared at days before.But he still appreciate it a lot.
George remind of the crumpled note from that morning and tucked it inside The Little Prince, right next to a page where the fox said, “You become responsible forever for what you’ve tamed.”
Then he sat down on the small bed, the faint scent of old paper and chamomile still in the air.Be around with all of these, for the first time in a long time, George felt like hehad found a peaceful place that felt like home.
Chapter 4
After helping the lady find the poetry collection, George didn’t forget watching her retreating figurewith the book tightly clutched to her chest. It was the first timethat he felt a tangible sense of being needed settling in his chest—a warm, weightless feeling he hadn’t experienced in years.
In the following days,he often wandered among the bookshelveswith his fingers brushing gently over the spines of the books.
The rough texture of the cardboard suddenly inspired his memory: the short story manuscripts hehad written as a childwere tucked at the bottom of an old schoolbag.They gathered dustsilently as work and adult responsibilities crowded out his once-cherished passion,as if the child George abandoned in the dust.
George was deep in thought.Maybe those forgotten words could spark new luster here.In this quiet library filled with stories waiting to be rediscovered.
As the evening fell, George was tidying up the back storage room when his eye lied on a wooden desk coated in a thin layer of dust.
Curiously, George opened the drawer and found a fountain pen and a stack of yellowed writing paper. That pen’s metal nibwas slightly wornand the paper edges were soft with age.
Just then, the elderly gentleman walked here, a gentle smile playing on his lips.
“That belonged to the previous librarians,” he said, nodding at the desk. “If youhave got something to write, go ahead. The library’s story deserves new chapters, too.”
George hesitated for a moment, his fingers hovering over the pen.
It had been so long since hehad put down the pen, since hehad let his thoughts flow freely without worry of deadlines or expectations.
Time past.Someone had made his decision.
When the nib touched the paper, inspiration sparked and appeared back like a long-dormant river. George began to write about his days at the library—the quiet morningsof unique ink scent, the sound of pages turning, the lady with the poetry book.As the twilight outside seeped through the window, painting the room in soft blues and grays, he didn’t feel lonely at all.
Before closing the library late that night, the door creaked open.The lady from earlierafternoon walked in. This time, she held a small tin in her hands.
“Homemade shortbread,” she explained, holding it out to George.
“My mom always used to say, people who help others find something they love deserve a little sweetness in return.” She smiled, her eyes softening as she looked around the quiet library. “Iwill bring my kid here next week. I want them to feel how books have a warmth of their own, like holding a piece of someone’s heart.”
George took the tin, its surface still slightly warm from her hands.
He said goodbye to the lady, then turned around to find the elderly gentleman who standing behind him, nodding approvingly at the half-filled page of manuscript in his hand,as if saying “great job”.
The warm glow of the desk lamp shined over them, and for the first time, the library’s silence wasno longer empty.It was filled with soft, warm sounds: the rustle of paper, the quiet hum of contentment, and the faint, sweet promise of more stories to come.
Chapter 5
On the next morning, sunlight slanted through the library’s stained-glass windows, painting the wooden floors in flecks of red and gold.
George was arranging a stack of children’s books on a low shelf when he heard a familiarand cheerful voice behind him: “Great job getting these sorted!Kids will spot their favorites in no time!”
He turned to see the elderly gentleman, George had started mentally calling him “Mr. Grejob” days ago,who always holds a armful of gardening magazines, a crinkly smile spreading across his face.
The nickname had popped into George’s head last week, due to every time when the gentleman had praised his initiative working in the first meet,his handwritten book recommendations and then later, his quick fix of a wobbly chair.No matter what things George did, he would always got gentleman’s “Great job”.It wasn’t meant to be teasing; if anything, it felt like a quiet inside joke, a way to wrap up all the warmth of the old gentleman’s constant encouragement.
“Thanks, Mr.—” George caught himself mid-sentence, heat creeping up his neck. He’d almost said it out loud.
But Mr. Harlow tilted his head, curious. “Thanks, who?” he asked, setting the magazines down on the front desk and leaning in slightly, like he was in on a secret.
George laughed, scratching the back of his neck.
“Well, I… I’ve been calling you ‘Mr. Grejob’ in my head. Because you say ‘great job’ about everything.” He braced himself, worried it might sound silly.Butold gentleman’s eyes lit up, and he let out a loud, hearty laughter that echoed through the quiet library.
“Mr. Grejob!” he repeated, tapping his forehead playfully.
“Why didn’t I think of that? That’s better than ‘old grandpa’,my grandkids call me that.And this name makes me feel like a dusty encyclopedia!”
He clapped George on the shoulder, his handwas warm and firm. “I love it. From now on, that’s my library name. Deal?”
George nodded, grinningfrom ear to ear.
Just then, the bell above the door jingled, and the lady from last weekwalked in,this time with a little girl with two pigtails ,clutching a stuffed rabbit.
“Look, Lila!” the lady said, pointing to George. “That’s the nice man who found my poetry book.” Lila hid behind her mom’s leg, but peeked out when George held up a picture book about bunnies.
“I love cute bunny,too,” George said softly and winked. Lila giggled, stepping forward a little.
Mr. Grejob leaned against the desk, watchingall of this.
When Lila and her mom settled into an armchair to read, he turned to George, his voice was soft:“You See that? You’re not just sorting books or writing stories,youare also making people feel welcome. Great job with that, George.”
George looked over at Lila, who was now turning the book’s pages slowlywith her eyes wideand shiny. Outsidethe window, a bird was singing, and the sunlight shifted, making the library glow.
George picked up his pen from the desk,tapped it again and again against his notebook.
Maybe today, hewould write about Mr. Grejob, and the way a simple nickname could feel like a promise that here in this library, everyone belonged, and every smallbut kind thing was worth celebrating.
The bell jingled again, and another visitor walked in.
Mr. Grejob stood up straight, already smiling. “Welcome! Need help finding something? I bet my friend George here can do a great job—”
George laughed, standing up too. Today was going to be a good day.
Chapter 6
The next Saturday, the library’s bell jingled more than usual:parents with strollers, teens carrying backpacks, and a familiar pair: Lila, now clutching not just her stuffed rabbit but a crumpled drawing, and her mom who waved as soon as she spotted George.
“Lila made this for you,” the lady said, nudging her daughter forward.
Lila held out the paper, and George bent down to see.
It’s a stick-figure version of him, grinning next to a tall bookshelf filled with rainbow-colored books, and a tiny bunny sitting on the floor.
“She said it’s the nice book man and the libraryof rabbits,’” her mom added, and Lila nodded so hard her pigtails bounced.
“Wow,this is amazing!” George said, careful enough in order not to crease the paper.
“Can I hang it by my deskso everyone can see?” Lila smiled and nodded, and she ran to peek at the desk where George kept his manuscript.
Mr. Grejob, who’d been restocking gardening magazines nearby, chuckled. “Great job winning over our smallest regular.She talked about you all week, George.”
Just then, a boy almost same as Lila’s age wandered over, staring at the picture book about bunnies that George had shown Lila last time.
His mom walked here and sighed softly. “He loves rabbits, but he’s shy about asking for help. We just moved here, and heis still getting used to new places.”
George knelt down, holding up the bunny bookto the boy. “Want to see this? It has a rabbit who finds a hidden garden in a library,just like how we find new books here.”
The boy hesitated, then nodded, sitting on the floor next to Lila. Soon, they were pointing at the illustrations together, Lila chattering about the bunny’s adventures.
“See that?” Mr. Grejob said, leaning against the shelf as he watched the two kids. “You’re building here a place more than just with books. A place where people feel safe to ask, to share, to be themselves.”
He handed George a small, leather-bound notebook. “I found this in the storage room yesterday. I thought you might want to write down these little moments,theyare the best parts of the library’s story, right?”
George opened the notebook.The pages were blank, but the leather smelled like old paper and sunlight.
He thought of Lila’s drawing, the boy’s first smile, the way Mr. Grejob’s “great job” always felt like a hug. On that evening after closing, George sat at the wooden deskwith pen in hand, and wrote about the day—about how a bunny book had brought two kids together, about how a simple drawing had felt like a gift, about how “Mr. Grejob” wasn’t just a nickname, but a reminder that kindness could turn a quiet library into a home.
As he wrote, he heard a soft sound of tapping on the window.
George raised his head.It was Lila, pressing her face against the glass and waving. George waved back, and she held up a new drawing—this time, it had her, the boy, Mr. Grejob, and George, all standing together in front of the old but warm library.
He closed the notebook, smiling. Tomorrow, hewould hang that pretty drawing next to the first one. And maybe, he thought, hewould start a new shelf, hewould call it“Books That Bring Us Together”with the bunny book in the center.
Outsidethe library, the moon rose, casting a soft luster over the library.
George picked up his manuscriptwhich was now thick with pages of stories, feeling something he hadn’t felt in a long time: excitement for what came next. Because here, between the pages and the people, every day was a new chapter,and he couldn’t wait to write it.
chapter 7
The next morning, George arrived at the library an hour early. In his hands was a small wooden sign he’d painted the night before.It’s “Books That Bring Us Together” in curly, blue letters.And the bunny bookwas wrapped in a soft cloth to keep its cover safe.
He walked straight to the empty shelf near the children’s area, nailed the sign above it, and placed the bunny book front and center, adjusting its position until it caught the morning light just right.
“It looks perfect,” a voice said behind him. It was Mr. Grejob, holding a stack of picture books. “Do you think wewill have any additions today?” George smiled, glancing at the two drawings taped to his desk—it’s Lila’s first one of him and the bunny, and the second with all of them. “I have a feeling that we might.”
George wasnot wrong. Just as the library opened, the bell jingled, and Lila ran inwith her stuffed rabbit tucked under one arm and a book in the other.
“George! George!”she called, jumping to a stop in front of the new shelf. Her eyes widened when she saw the bunny book. “It’s here! Can we read it again,please?”`
Before George could answer, a small hand tugged at his sleeve.It was the boywho came yesterday.His mom stood a few steps away, smiling.
“He asked if we could come back today,” she said.
The boy held up a book about a rabbit who makes friends with a squirrel, his cheeks pink with shyness. “For the shelf,” he mumbled.
George knelt down, taking the book gently.
“This is what the library need perfectly,” he said. “Do you want to help me put it there?” The boy nodded, and together they placed the book next to the bunny one.
Lila clapped her hands.“Now we need a story timewith both books!”
By the mid-morning, the children’s area was filled with kids.
George sat on a soft rug, the bunny book in one hand and the new rabbit-and-squirrel book in the other. Lila and the boy sat right in front of him, leaning in as he read, and soon other kids were addicted to the illustrations and laughing.
When he finished, a little girl with pigtails like Lila’s held up a book about a rabbit family.
“My mom said this book helped me stop being scared of new school,” she said. “Can it go on the shelf,too?”
“Of course dear!”
By the end of the day, the“Books That Bring Us Together”shelf had seven total books.
George stood back to look at itwith satisfied smile.Each book was a little piece of someone’s story, a reminder of how stories could connect peopletogether.
Mr. Grejob walked over, holding a mug of hot cocoa. “I told you that you were building somethinggreat.” he said, handing thewarm mugto George.
At evening, George sat at his desk with the leather-bound notebook.
He wrote about the new shelf, about the boy who mustered up the courage to share his book, about Lila’s endless energy and the little girl with pigtails.
As he wrote, he heard the soft tap on the window again.
It was Lila, but this time she wasn’t alone.The boy was with her, holding up a drawing of the two of them, the shelf, and all the bunny books.
George wavedagain, and Lila blew him a kiss.
George closed the notebook, sipping his cocoa, and looked at his manuscript. At that time, he didn’t just see pages of stories.He saw a way to share the kindness and connections hehad found in the library.
Maybe, he thought, his book didn’t have to be just about rabbits. Maybe it could be about the people who loved them, and the places that brought those people together.
Outsidethe window, the stars came out, twinkling above the library.
George picked up the bunny book,gently stroked the cover with his fingers.
Tomorrow would be another day—maybe another chance to add a new book to the shelf, another chance to write a new chapter. And he couldn’t wait.
chapter8
On the next morning, rain tapped against the library windows, turning the world outside soft and blurry.
George unlocked the door.He held a umbrella in one hand, and the leather-bound notebook was in the other,being protected from the rainwater.
George woke up earlytoday, eager to write down a new idea for his manuscript.It’s oneidea that was related to the “Books That Bring Us Together” shelf.
Inside, the library smelled like cinnamon and old paper.It’s from Mr. Grejob’s morning tea.
George hung his umbrella by the door and was about to head to his desk when he noticed a small figure huddled on the window seat.
It was Lila.She protected her stuffed rabbit under her chin, staring at the continuous rain. Her mom stood nearby, holding a wet raincoat.
“We thought wecould avoid the downpour.However,planscan not keep up with changes,” her mom laughed. Lila looked up, and her face brightened when she saw George.
“George! Do you think the shelf gets lonely when it rains? What if the books miss the kids?”
Before George could answer, the bell jingled again. It was the boy.Now George had known his name,Leo,which his mom told them.
Leo was carrying a plastic bag.It seemed like he had prepared something.
“I brought something,” he said, pulling out a crumpled piece of paper.
It was a drawing of the “Books That Bring Us Together” shelf, but this time, each book had a tiny heart next to it.
“For the shelf,” he said, quieter than before.
George taped the drawing next to the shelf, right below Lila’s first two.
“Now it’s a family,” Lila said, grinningfrom ear to ear.
By the mid-morning, more kids had arrived.Someof them came with rain boots splattered with mud, others clutching their favorite books.They gathered around the window seat, where George had laid out a pile of picture books from the special shelf.
George start with reading the book The Bunny’s Hidden Garden, and when he got to the part where the bunny finds a friend, Leo leaned in and whispered, “That’s us.” Lila heard him and nodded so hard her pigtails bounced.
After the story, a little boy named Max held up a book about a rabbit who helps a lost bird.
“This book made me not scared to ask for help when I got lost in the grocery store,” he said. George added it to the shelfdelightfully.
By noon, the rain had slowed tobe a drizzle.
Mr. Grejob brought out mugs of hot apple cider for everyone, and the kids sat on the floor, sipping and chatting. George was tidying up the shelf when he noticed something tucked between the pages of The Bunny’s Hidden Garden: It’s a smalland folded note.
He opened it carefully. It was written in messy, kid-sized handwriting—“Thank you for making the library feel like home. I used to hate coming here because I was scared no one would talk to me. Now I have friends.”
There was no nameon the note, but George smiled.He knew it could be any of them: Leo, Max, maybe even Lila.
That evening, after closingthe library, George sat again at his desk with the note in one hand and his manuscript in the other. He wrote about the rainy day, about Leo’s drawing, about the note that felt like a secret gift. He added a new chapter to his book—one where the bunny doesn’t just find a garden, but a group of friends who help each other.
Just as he closed the notebook, he heard a tap on the windowagain. It was Lila and Leo, standing under a shared umbrella, wavingas the same as previous nights.
The talented artist,Lila, held up a new drawing: all of them—George, Mr. Grejob, Leo, Max, and her standing in front of the library, the rain stopped, and a beautiful rainbow in the sky.
George waved backagain, and Leo held up a thumbs-up.
Outside, the last of the rain clouds drifted away, leaving a faint glow of sunlight. He looked at the “Books That Bring Us Together” shelf.Now it has collected nine books, and the drawings were taped nearby. It wasnot just a shelf, he thought. It was a story,onestory that everyone was writing and creating together.
He picked up his manuscript.It’s now thicker than ever.
Tomorrow, the sun would come outin usual, and there would be new kids, new stories, and maybe even a new book for the shelf. And he couldn’t wait to be part of it.
Chapter 9
The library’s morning air smelled of chamomile—Mr. Grejob had left a mug on George’s desk, steam softly floated in the air,obvious due to the shining of sunlight streaming through the windows.
George ran a finger over the “Books That Bring Us Together” shelf.it now held eleven books, each spine worn with love, each tied to a memory—Lila’s first drawing, Leo’s shy “for the shelf,” the little girl’s rabbit-family book.
George had spent the night adding a new section to his manuscript, titled “The Shelf That Held More Than Books,” and his pen still felt warm after recording the words.
The bell above the door jingled.
Not the quick, excited jingle of kids,it’s slowand hesitant, like someone was weighing each step.
George looked up, and his pen froze in the mid-air.
Clara stood in the doorway, her blue scarf looped around her neck. It’s the one George had knitted for her, his fingers pricked a dozen times.
Her hair was shorter, and there was a faint crease between her brows.It seemed like she wasnot sure if sheshould come to the place. In her hands, she held a tattered book: The Rabbit’s Secret Garden, it’s the same one George had read to Lila and Leo weeks ago.
“Hi,” she said, her voice quieter than he remembered.
“I… I saw your post about the library. The shelf. I think I have to come see it...in person.”
George stood upwith his throat tight. It had been nearly one month since theyhad broken up.But the night they broke up with each other seemed to be yesterday.
His overtime nights bleeding into weekends, her calls being unanswered, until Clara had sat across from him at their favorite café and said, “We’re not even talking anymore, George. We’re just two people sharing a calendar.”He’d wanted to argue, to say he was busy for them, but the words had stuck in his throat.
Now, seeing her here, in the place that had become his home, he felt like he was staring at a half-finished story.
“You still like this one?” He nodded at the book in her hands. It had been her favorite, back when they’d curl up on his old couch and read to each other.
Clara smiled, small and soft. “I found it at a used shop last week. It made me come up with...you. With the stories we used to talk about writing.”
She stepped closer,with her eyes scanning the shelf.Her eyes finally focused on Lila’s drawing taped nearbyand the leather-bound notebook George left open to a page about Leo.
“You did it. You found your way back to writing.”
“I didn’t,” George shook his head. He walked to the desk, picking up his manuscript.
“This place did. The kids. Mr. Grejob. They made me realize I was working on a wrong life stories before—ones about deadlines, not people.” He paused, then added, “I’m sorry. For not making time. For letting us separate.”
Clara’s fingers brushed the edge of the shelf. “I’m sorry,too. I thought you didn’t care me anymore. I shouldhave asked… why you were working so hard.I didn’t consider your feelings.”
Just then, the bell jingled again. Lila ran in, Leo trailing behind her, both clutching drawings.
They stopped by the shelf when they saw Clara, and Lila tilted her head. “George, who’s she?”
“This is Clara,” George said, and for the first time since she’d walked in, he didn’t hesitate. “She’s someone who loves stories too. ”
Clara knelt down, her smile was so warm. “Nice to meet youall. George told me about the girl who has drawn the best library pictures.” Lila’s face lit up,putting her drawing into Clara’s hands.It was the shelf, but this time, there was a figure with a blue scarf standing next to George, holding a book.
“For you,” Lila said. “Now the shelf has everyone.”
“Wow,when did you draw that?”
“Just now outside the window.”Lila winked to Clara.
Leo stepped forward, holding out a small notebookof his own, with crayon marks on the cover.
“I wrote a story. About a rabbit who finds her friend. For the shelf.” He looked up at Clara. “George says friends can come back. If they want to.”
Clara’s eyes glistened. She took the notebook, then looked at George. “I want to. If you do.”
That evening, after the library closed, they sat on the window seat where George used to watch sunsets alone. Clara held Lila’s drawing, and George held his manuscript.
“I’m going to quit my job in the city,” she said. “I found a part-time editing work here. I want to be somewhere the stories mattera lot.”
George opened his manuscript to a blank page, handing her his pen.
“Then help me write the next chapter. About a shelf, and a library, and two people who forgot how to listen—until they didn’tanymore.”
Clara took the pen.
Outside, the stars came out, casting light on the “Books That Bring Us Together” shelf. Inside, the air was around of smell of chamomile and old paper.
George didn’t feel like he was missing anything. Because he realizedthat some stories werenot meant to be written alone—they were meant to be shared.
He looked at Clara, in one way her smile matched the sunset he once watched alone.He knew that the storycan’t be complete without Clara.
Chapter 10
The first light of morning slipped through the library’s windows, gilding the edges of the “Books That Bring Us Together” shelf.
George stood in front of it, counting—twelve books now.Clara had stayed the night in the small room behind the library.Mr. Grejob had insisted, pressing a spare blanket into her hands with a wink, and George could hear her soft laugh from the pantry, where she was making chamomile tea,just the way he liked it.
It had been a week since Clara arrived, and the library already felt different. Shehad hung fairy lights above the children’s area, helped Leo type up his rabbit story, and even added a new book to the shelf: a tattered copy of The Little Prince,the same one George had found by his bed months ago.
“It’s about finding home in people,” she said when she placed it there.
The bell jingled, and Lila jumped in, with her stuffed rabbit and a new stack of colored paper inher hands.
“George! Clara! Wewill have a party today, right?” She’d been talking about it all week.She called it“Shelf Birthday” to celebrate the shelf’s first month.Leo followed behind her, holding a homemade card covered in glue and glitter.
“Party’s all set,” Clara said, holding up a plate of cookies she’d baked the night before.These cookies were shaped like rabbits, just like Lila had asked.
Mr. Grejob wandered over, carrying a stack of paper hats. “Great job organizing this, you two,” he said, handing a hat to Lila. “The libraryhas never been this lively.”
By noon, the library was filled with people. Parents sat on the floor, listening as George read Leo’s story aloud; kids’ colored pictures of the shelf were taped on the walls; Clara handed out cookies and tea, stopping to chat with the woman whohad found the Leaves of Grass poetry book.
At one point, Lila climbed onto a chair and announced, “This shelf isn’t just for books,it’s for us!” Everyone cheered, and George looked at Clara, who was smiling at him, her eyes were so soft.
That evening, after the last guest left, George and Clara sat on the window seat, watching the sunset.
The shelf was now covered in drawings and cards, and the new Little Prince book sat front and center, its pages slightly open to the fox’s line about taming.
George picked up his manuscript—it was thicker than ever, filled with stories of the library, the kids, Mr. Grejob, and indispensable her.
“I sent a query to a publisher,” he saidwith deep voice. “Not just about the rabbit stories. About all of this.” He tapped the page where he’d written about the day Clara arrived, about Lila’s drawing, about Leo’s first smile. “I called it The Library That Felt Like Home.”
Clara took the manuscript from him, flipping through the pages.
When she reached the last chapter, she looked up, tears in her eyes. “You wrote about us,” she said.
George nodded. “We’re part of the story, too. The best part.”
Just then, there was a soft tap on the window. It was Lila and Leo, holding up a new drawing.This time, it was the entire library family: George, Clara, Mr. Grejob, Lila, Leo, and even the woman with the poetry book. They waved, then ran off, their laughter faded into the night.
Clara leaned her head on George’s shoulder, and he wrapped his arm around her.
Outside, the stars came outsilently, twinkling above the library. Inside, the air smelled of chamomile, cookies, and old paperwere still.it's the smell of home.
George thought about the blank pages left in his manuscript and smiled. There were still so many stories to tell: new books for the shelf, new kids to meet, new days with Clara by his side.
Chapter 11
The library’s morning was quiet, what only can be heard was the soft rustle of George turning pages.Hehad been rereading his manuscript for the tenth time, tracing the margins where Clara had scribbled little notes.
The “Books That Bring Us Together” shelf now held fourteen books; just yesterday, a teenager had added a poetry collection, sayingthat“These words helped me when I felt alone—maybe they’ll help someone else too.”
Clara set a mug of chamomile tea on George’s deskwih her blue scarf slipping off one shoulder. “Still overthinking it?” she asked, grinning.
George had been nervous since sending the manuscript to the publisher two weeks ago.What if they didn’t see the magic in the library’s stories? What if they thought it was just “a book about a shelf”?
“Maybe a little,” he admitted. Clara sat on the edge of the desk, taking his hand.
“They will. Because it’s not just about a shelf, or rabbits, or even us.It’s about people finding their way back to each other. That’s a kind of story everyone needs.”
Just then, Mr. Grejob appeared at the door, holding a crinkled envelope in his hand.
“Mail for you, George,” he winked. “It looks of importance.I saw a publisher’s logo on it.”
George’s heart skipped a beat. He fumbled with the envelope with his hands shaking, while Clara squeezed his other hand.
Inside was a letter typed on crisp white paper.
George read it aloud, his voice growing steadier with each line: “We love The Library That Felt Like Home.It’s warm, honest, and exactly the kind of story readers long for. We’d like to offer you a book deal.”
Clara took a long breath, throwing her arms around him.
Mr. Grejob clapped his handsand laughed. “I told you! Great job, George—great job to both of you.” Even the quiet library seemed to be filled with joy, the sunlight was brighter, the smell of old paper was sweeter.
That afternoon, the news spread like wildfire.
Lila arrived with a drawing of George holding a big book, Leo came with a card that said “Author George!” in beautiful letters. The woman with the Leaves of Grass book brought a pressed leaf, “For the book’s first page,” she said. Even the teenager who’d added the poetry collection stopped by, grinning. “Can I say I knew you early a lot?”
As the day darked down, George and Clara sat on the window seat, George held the letter in his hand. “What happens now?” Clara asked, her head lying on his shoulder.
George looked at the shelf—fourteen books and several drawings taped nearby and the leather-bound notebook where he’d written his first library memory. He thought of the publisher’s words, of the kids’ laughter, of Mr. Grejob’s “great job” that always felt like a hug.
“Now we are keeping going,” he said. “I’ll work on the final edits, but this library’s story isn’t over. We’ll add more books to the shelf, more kids will come, more people will find their way here.” He paused, smiling at her. “And you’ll be right here, helping me write the next part.”
Clara kissed his cheek. Outside, the moon rose, the luster shone over the library.
George picked up his pen, opened the leather-bound notebook, and wrote: Today, we got a letter. But the real gift isn’t the book deal,it’s the people who made this story possible. The ones who sat on the floor to read, who drew pictures, who brought books to share. The ones who turned a quiet library into a home.
He closed the notebook, then stood up, taking Clara’s hand. “Do you want to organize the new books for the shelf? We’ve got a poetry collection and a rabbit story waiting.” Clara nodded.
Tomorrow would bring edits and meetings, phone calls and deadlines,but tonight, they had the library, the shelf, and each other. And George thought all of these were more than enough. Because some stories don’t end when a book is published,they just start a new chapter.
Chapter 12
The crisp winter air carried the smell of cinnamon and pine as George unlocked the library’s door.
Today was the day that his book The Library That Felt Like Home was officially launching. And the small space was decked out in fairy lights, paper snowflakes, and a banner Lila had painted: “George’s Book Day!”
The “Books That Bring Us Together” shelf now held twenty books, each one carried a story of connection, and George had placed a copy of his new book right beside the bunny book that started it all.
Clara walked in carrying a cup of hot cocoa, her cheeks were pink due to the cold winter. “Everything is ready,” she said.“The publisher sent extra copies for signing, and Mr. Grejob brought his famous apple pie.” George nodded, his stomach fluttering.
He had dreamed of this day for decades of years, but he never imagined it would feel so warm, surrounded by the people who had almost become his family.
The bell jingled, and the library filled up fast.
Leo arrived first, clutching a tattered copy of his own rabbit story.“Can you sign mine too?” he asked, his voice shy but bright.
Then came the woman with the Leaves of Grass book, holding a photo of her mom.“I want to tell her your book’s out.I'm sure she’d love it”.
Even the teenager who’d donated the poetry collection showed up, bringing a friend who loved stories about small towns.
Mr. Grejob stood up on a chair, tapping a mug with a spoon to get everyone’s attention.
“Today’s not just about a book,” he said, his eyes scanning around the room.Kids were sitting cross-legged on the floor, and parents were laughing, George and Clara were standing side by side.
“It’s about what happens when people care,when a man who lost his way finds a library, when kids share their stories, when friends come back. Great job, everyone!this is our story too!”
Applause filled the room, and George felt a lump in his throat.
He sat down at a small table which was covered in bookplates and pens.And one by one, people came up to get their books signed.
Lila climbed onto his lap, asking him to draw a bunny next to his name; Leo handed him a drawing of the library, which George tucked into his pocket; the teenager’s friend said, “This book makes me want to volunteer at a library,too.”
By late afternoon, the crowd had thinned, and George and Clara sat on the window seat, sipping hot cocoa. The sun was setting, painting the sky in shades of orange and purple, and the library was quiet again.
“Did you ever think it would end up like this?” Clara asked, leaning her head on his shoulder.
George thought back to that terrible day that he had been fired, evicted, and heartbroken.At that time he had felt like his story was over. But now, looking at the shelf, the drawings, the book in his hand, he smiled.
“No,” he said. “But I’m glad it did. Not because of the book,because of this.” He gestured to the library, to Mr. Grejob laughing at a page in the book, to the empty mugs and crumpled wrapping paper that told the story of the day. “This is the real happy ending.”
Just then, there was a soft knock on the door. A woman stood outside, holding a small girl’s hand and a book—The Rabbit Who Found a Friend.
“I saw the banner,” she said, hesitating. “My daughter loves rabbits, and we just moved here. I thought maybe this place could feel like home for her,too.”
George stood up, smiling, and held the door open. “Come in,please.” he said. “We’ve got a shelf full of stories,and we’re always looking for more.”
The little girl’s eyes lit up when she saw the “Books That Bring Us Together” shelf, and she pulled her mom toward it. George looked at Clara who was grinning, and knew this wasn’t the end of the story. It was just another beginning.
In the evening,George took out his leather-bound notebook and wrote: A book launch isn’t the end. It’s a invitation for more stories, more people, more days that feel like home. Tonight, a new family walked through our door. Tomorrow, who knows? But I’ll be here, with the people I love, ready to write it all down.
He closed the notebook, then took Clara’s hand. Outside, the moon was still bright, and the library’s windows glowed like a beacon.
Chapter 13
The first snow of winter fell softly outside the library, turning the world white and quiet.
George stood by the window, watching snowflakes stick to the glass, while Clara sat at his desk, wrapping copies of The Library That Felt Like Home in red paper.They had promised to send one to Leo’s grandma, who’d loved hearing about the shelf over video calls.
The “Books That Bring Us Together” shelf now held twenty-five books, including a new one from the little girl who’d moved here last month.She sent a picture book about a rabbit learning to ski, its pages dotted with glitter just looks like snow.
“Mr. Grejob said he will bring hot cider in ten minutes,” Clara said, holding up a wrapped book. “Do you think Lila will like the bunny sticker I put on hers?”
George smiled.Lila had been asking for “a book with sparkles” for weeks, ever since she had seen the new rabbit-ski book. Just then, the bell jingled, and a gust of cold air swept in, carrying the sound of Lila’s laughter.
“George! Clara! Look what we made!” Lila ran in,holding a paper snowflake with a rabbit drawn in the center.Her coat was covered with snow. Leo followed in, carrying a plate of cookies which his mom had baked.They were shaped like books, with “For the Shelf” written in icing.
“We wanted to decorate the library for winter,” Lila said, bouncing on her toes. “Mr. Grejob said we could hang the snowflakes by the shelf!”
George knelt down, taking the snowflake. “It’s perfect,” he said. “Do you want to hang it first? We can put it right above the bunny-ski book.”
Lila nodded, grabbing Clara’s hand, while Leo followed with the cookies. Mr. Grejob arrived soon after, carrying a large pot of cider.The four of them spent the morning decorating.Snowflakes finally were dangled from the ceiling, cookies were arranged on a plate next to the shelf, and George taped a new drawing Lila had made—all of them wearing scarves, standing in front of the snow-covered library.
By the afternoon,more people stopped by. The teenager with the poetry collection brought his little sister who picked out the rabbit-ski book and refused to put it down. The woman with Leaves of Grass came with a jar of jam. Even the publisher sent an email, saying the book was selling better than expected, with readers leaving comments like, “This makes me want to visit my local library.”
As the day faded into evening, the snow stopped, and the library was bathed in soft lamplight. George and Clara sat on the window seat, sharing a mug of cider, while Mr. Grejob read Leo’s rabbit story aloud to the kids. Lila fell asleep on the couch, her stuffed rabbit tucked under her arm, and Leo leaned against his mom with his eyes heavy with sleep.
“Remember when I thought this library was just a job?” George whispered to Clara. She nodded, squeezing his hand. “Now it’s everything,” she said. George looked around—the shelf glowing with fairy lights, the snowflakes spinning gently, the sound of Mr. Grejob’s voice mixing with the crackle of the heater.
He thought of the empty hotel room he’d stayed in months ago, the loneliness he had felt and smiled in heart. That George was gone,replaced by someone who had a family, a home, and a shelf full of stories that kept growing.
That night, after everyone left, George took out his leather-bound notebook. He wrote about the snow, the cookies, the way Lila’s snowflake caught the light. He wrote about the publisher’s email, about Leo’s quiet smile, about Clara’s hand in his. Then he turned to a new page, and at the top, he wrote: What’s next?
He didn’t have an answer yet—but that was okay. Because tomorrow the snow would melt a little, new people might walk through the door, and the shelf would wait, empty but ready, for the next book, the next story, the next piece of someone’s heart.
George closed the notebook, turned off the lamp, and held Clara’s hand as they walked out of the library. The moon was bright, and the snow glittered like stars on the ground.
Chapter 14
The first warm breeze of spring slipped through the library’s open windows, carrying the sweet scent of cherry blossoms from the tree Mr. Grejob had planted years ago.
George stood in front of the “Books That Bring Us Together” shelf.Now it has hold thirty-two books. A ray of sunlight hit the shelf, catching the edges of Lila’s first drawing of the stick-figure George and rainbow books,and Leo’s crayon-marked notebook, still tucked between two rabbit stories.
Clara walked over, holding a small terracotta pot with a sprouting sunflower seedling. “Leo brought this this morning,” she said, smiling. “He said it’s for the shelf—‘to grow with our stories.’”
George took the pot, setting it on the shelf’s top ledge, where the sun would hit it just right. Below it, a new book laid waiting.It's a tattered copy of Charlotte’s Web, left by the little girl who’d moved here in winter,her mom had said it “taught her to make sincere friends, just like the library did.”
The bell jingled, and Lila rushed in, her pigtails tied with cherry blossom ribbons.Leo followed in, he was clutching a stack of blank notebooks.
“George! We’re having a story-writing day!” Lila announced, bouncing over to the children’s area where Mr. Grejob was laying out colored pencils. “Everyone gets to write a page about their favorite library memory,and we will put it in a big book for the shelf!”
Mr. Grejob looked up, his eyes crinkling with a smile. “Great job rounding up the crew, Lila,” he said. He had slowed down a little lately, but his “great job” still sounded like a hug.It's warm and steady, just like the library itself,elderly but powerful.
As the morning turned to afternoon, the library was filled with the scratch of pencils and soft laughter.
A teenager sat in the corner, writing a poem about the cherry blossoms outside; a mom and her toddler drew a picture of the sunflower seedling; Leo wrote a short story about a rabbit who helped a new friend find their way.
George sat at his old wooden desk, flipping through his leather-bound notebook,the one where he’d written his first library memory, the day he found The Little Prince by his bed. He turned to a new page and began to write:
“Spring comes, and the shelf grows. Not just with books quantity, but with pieces of people—Lila’s ribbons, Leo’s sunflower, the way Clara laughs when she finds a coffee stain in an old book. I used to think loneliness was a blank page, but here, we have filled it together. Every book, every drawing, every ‘great job’—it’s all a part of something bigger.”
Clara leaned over his shoulder, reading the words he just wrote. “You should add that to the next edition,” she said, pressing a kiss to his cheek.
Outside, a bird landed on the windowsill, chirping.George looked up to see Lila holding up her finished page.It's a drawing of all of them, standing under the cherry tree, with the library behind them.
By evening, the big storybook Lila had planned was filled. George taped it to the shelf, right next to the sunflower pot, and everyone gathered around to look. Leo’s sunflower had already grown a tiny leaf; the cherry blossoms outside were falling like pink snow; and the smell of chamomile tea which was Mr. Grejob’s usualmixed with the sweet air of spring.
As the last guest left, George, Clara, and Mr. Grejob sat on the window seat—just like George had sat alone in that first week,and watched the sunset paint the sky orange and pink. It was the same sunset he had stared at years ago, when he had felt like everything was gone.
But now, his hand was in deep–loved Clara’s, Mr. Grejob was telling a story about the library’s first spring, and the shelf behind them hummed with the quiet magic of all the lives it had touched.
George thought of the day again that he had experienced no work,no home,no love and no money.“I might continue to be lonely.” That man said those words was gone and never come back forever, but he wasn’t forgotten. He was here, in the pages of his book, in the shelf’s stories, in the people who loved him.
Mr. Grejob stood up, stretching. “Well, another day well done,” he said, grinning. “Great job, you two. Great job, all of us.”
George smiled, looking at the shelf—thirty-two books, a sunflower, a stack of drawings, and a heart full of tomorrows. He knew the stories would keep coming: new books, new kids, new spring days with cherry blossoms and chamomile tea. And he’d be here, writing them down, with the people he loved.
Because goodbye to lonely man was not an end. It was the start of a story that never really finishes—one where every page is filled with connection, and every shelf holds a little piece of home.
Chapter 15
Autumn’s golden light filtered through the library’s windows, dappling the “Books That Bring Us Together” shelf—now holding forty-one books. George knelt to straighten a tattered copy of Where the Wild Things Are, and his fingers brushed a small, square object tucked between its pages:it'sa photo.
It was Lila, now with braids instead of pigtails, grinning next to Leo, who held a trophy for his school’s story-writing contest.
The back of the photo had Lila’s messy handwriting: “For George—remember when we wrote the big book? P.S. :The bunny book is still my favorite!”
Clara stood aside and smiled. “They dropped that off last week while you were editing the second edition,”she said, handing him a mug of chamomile tea.
“Leo said his story about the rabbit and the sunflower was inspired by ‘the shelf that feels like family.’”
Mr. Grejob wandered over, carrying a new book: a hardcover copy of The Library That Felt Like Home, signed by George. “I found this in the storage room and figured it belonged here,” he said, placing it next to the original bunny book. His “great job” was softer now, but still warm, like the autumn sun.
Just then, the bell jingled. A little boy with a stuffed rabbit hesitated at the door, then ran to the shelf, his mom following. “This is the place Lila told us about!” the boy said, pointing to Lila’s first drawing taped nearby. “Can I add my book? It’s about a rabbit who makes a library for his friends!”
George nodded, and together they placed the book.Its cover was decorated with crayon stars. The boy’s eyes shone, and George thought of himself, years ago, standing alone in a cheap hotel, wondering if he’d ever belong.
That evening, after closing, George opened his leather-bound notebook. He continued to wrote:
“The shelf doesn’t just hold books. It holds Lila’s laughter, Leo’s courage, Mr. Grejob’s warmth, Clara’s love… and me I never thought I couldfind. Loneliness isn’t a blank page—it’s a space waiting for others to write in it.
George felt great gratitude to all he did and met,including the decision of stepping out that company and wandering the strange street.All of them is s luck,is the fate that can not be avoided.
Every day George met different kids,different books and different stories.From now on he no longer felt lonely or scared,for this ancient library which carried him continuous calmness and warmth.
Bye lonely man,
And hello,new stories.
