The Book Without a Name

     Mos Springs was a town that had happiness figured out. Nestled between two sparkling lakes and hugged by gently rolling hills, it radiated a kind of quiet joy that felt both earned and effortless. It was a place stitched together with community potlucks, Saturday skating lessons, and front porch conversations that carried on well into the evening. 

     Every morning began with a gentle sunrise stretching across the lakes like spilled honey, casting golden ripples on the calm waters and painting rooftops in blush and amber. The air smelled faintly of dew and blooming crepe myrtles, and if you listened closely, you could hear the subtle sounds of the town waking up. From the distant splash of paddles on the lake, a puppy barking at a squirrel in the dog park, and the warm chatter of families headed toward one of a dozen ways to spend the day. From the trampoline park to the community trail loop, from the bowling alley to the corner bookstore that smelled like roasted coffee and paper dreams—Mos Springs offered all the small joys of being alive. 

     Arden Beckner had always felt lucky to call this town her home. Even when her classmates spoke of escaping to far-off cities, Arden had never wished to be anywhere else. She loved everything about it, from the big community gatherings to the neighbors who wave without needing a reason, and even the hum of trains passing through. But what she loved most, were the stories inside the Mos Springs Public Library.

     The library stood quietly near the edge of the park, its ivy-draped brick walls holding decades of stories of every kind. It wasn't flashy—no towering pillars, now grand entrance. But for Arden, it felt like a living creature with a pulse of words and wonder hidden behind a modest wooden door. 

     She'd been coming here since she was little—first as a wide-eyed reader curled into beanbag corners, then as a teenager who knew exactly where her favorite stories lived. Somewhere along the way, it became her sanctuary. Now, it was also her workplace. 

     Her boss, Mr. Penbridge, was a soft-spoken man with sweater vests for every day of the week and the gentle energy of a day without clouds. On Arden's first afternoon, he met her near the front desk with a clipboard and an apologetic smile. 

     "Well, no sense easing you in too slowly," he said, scratching his head beneath silver curls. "Your first task is storage. There's quite a mountain of old books down there waiting to be sorted. The room itself needs cleaning too, I'd imagine." 

     He led her past the reading nook and through a narrow hallway that seemed to grow colder with each step. The storage room door loomed at the end, heavy and crooked on its hinges, like it had forgotten how to open politely.

     "There will be three bins waiting for you. One for the trash, one for donations, and one for anything worth keeping," he explained, opening the creaking door with a wince. "Oh, and by the way, if you find anything headed for the trash or donation box that catches your eye, feel free to take it. That's one perk of the job!" He finished with a smile. 

     "Thank you, sir, I'll get right on it!" Arden nodded, trying not to look too excited. 

     With that, Mr. Penbridge politely shut the door behind her. Inside, stacks of abandoned books teetered like uncertain monuments. Dust coated every surface like a second skin. Shelves bowed under the weight of decades. Spiderwebs stretched from spine to spine like ghostly bookmarks. A mop leaned forlornly in the corner, giving her the vague impression that even it had tried and failed.

     A mouse darted across the floor like it was offended by her intrusion. She sighed, rolled up her sleeves, and whispered to herself, “So... cleaning first. Then organizing. And hopefully some treasure hunting if I’m lucky.”

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     Sometime later, Alden was wiping dust from her fingers onto her jeans, squinting at the crooked label of a cracked spine. The room smelled like mildew and forgotten summers, but little by little, she was reclaiming it. The piles dwindled, the bins slowly filled. She hated throwing away any book, even the ones that had been half eaten by time. Unfortunately, some were so damaged that their titles had bled away, and their pages stuck together like wilted petals. Even so, she did her best to honor them in the sorting. 

     Soon, by the fourth hour, she had cleared nearly a third of the room. She sat tiredly on a small wooden stool she'd found while cleaning. Her legs ached and her back protested, but her spirit was still curious. 

     That was when she saw it, a strange book she hadn't noticed before. It wasn't tucked on a shelf or crammed in a box like the others. It sat alone, almost deliberately, on a faded desk near the wall. A book with maroon binding, no title, no author, no marking at all.  

     Arden blinked. She took a slow step forward, heart skipping, as if the air around it had grown heavier. The book looked impossibly clean, almost new. No dust, and no curled edges. It was out of place in the chaos of the room. And strangely, for reasons she couldn't name, it sort of felt.... aware. Like it had been waiting there quite some time. 

     She swore it shimmered. Just a flicker, like light off water. But there was no change in the rooms stagnant lighting. She reached out, her curiosity taking over. 

     "Oh, there you are," came a warm voice behind her. 

     She jumped, nearly knocking a box of brochures off the desk. Mr. Penbridge stood in the doorway with a smile, holding two paper cups of peach iced tea. "Thought you might need a break," he said, handing one to her. 

     Arden took the cup, her fingers still trembling slightly. “Thanks,” she murmured, glancing back toward the desk.

     "I'm sorry I scared you Miss Arden, I figured you'd hear me open the door, as loud as it is," he explained, "Actually, I forgot you were down here, I was looking for you everywhere, until I finally remembered where you were, I apologize for that as well!" 

     Arden chuckled, "Don't worry about it, I would've forgotten me too, if I were in your shoes. I'm surprised I didn't hear the door either, I was so entranced by that book...." she hesitated, her voice quieter than usual. "Mr. Penbridge... that book. On the desk. Do you know anything about it?" 

     He blinked, then adjusted his glasses as if the right angle might jog his memory. “That one? Hmm.” He stepped closer, peering at the maroon-bound volume like it had asked him a riddle. “It’s been here nigh on a decade, maybe more. I never knew where it came from exactly. I think it was written by… oh goodness.” He said as he rubbed his temple.

     Arden leaned forward, holding her breath. Something about the book felt… familiar. Not in the way you recognize a title or recall a childhood favorite—but deeper, older. Like remembering a dream, you forgot you’d had.

     "She used to work here," said Mr. Penbridge, snapping his fingers weakly as a name teetered on the edge of recall. "Some bright young woman; quiet, creative, much like yourself actually. It's all a bit fuzzy.... " He paused, brows furrowing as he stared at the maroon book like it might help him remember. “Ah… yes. Mathilda Beckner. That was her name.”

     Arden's breath hitched, eyes as wide as saucers. She didn't speak aloud, but something in her heart shifted, a trembling recognition flickering behind her ribs like a match just struck. 

     "I can't believe I forgot about her," Mr. Penbridge continued, unaware of his employee's turmoil. "She was a bright soul, Miss Mathilda. She was quiet, but I could tell she was always thinking. She had a curious way of looking at things too, like books were windows instead of paper. I was actually quite fond of her, truth be told." He sighed, voice dipping lower. “Funny how some people leave a bigger mark than you realize, even if they don’t stay long.”

     Arden swallowed, the name echoing like a bell inside her. She turned reached out towards the book once again, her fingers tingling as they hovered near the spine. For a moment, it felt as if the air shifted. The room seemed warmer now, and heavier, as if the room itself had stilled to watch. 

     "You can take it, if you'd like," said Mr. Penbridge with a kind smile. "I don't remember cataloging it, though I've seen it here for years." He turned to Arden, "You've done plenty for today. Why don't you head home and get some rest? You've certainly earned it."

     Arden nodded slowly, fingers still tingling. She gently lifted the book into her hands.  

     Strange. The storage room of the library was chilly, especially after she'd cleaned the vents. The concrete floor still felt cold through the soles of her sneakers, and the air clung to her skin like damp paper. Somehow though, the book was.... warm? Not just room temperature-warm, but unnervingly so. Like it had been resting beneath a blanket or freshly pulled from sunlight, even though no such light had ever reached the bunker. She traced the edges of the blank cover, smooth and unmarked, yet humming faintly under her touch. 

     It's probably just my imagination. She thought as she placed the book carefully in her bag, and thanked Mr. Penbridge before leaving the library. The drive home was quiet. Her thoughts circled the book like moths, spinning around the way it seemed untouched by time. And that name...

     Arden pulled slowly in the driveway. The familiar shape of home waited—brick steps, the windchimes her mom refused to take down, a line of petunias blinking in the setting sunlight. She turned off the engine and sat for a moment. Something felt off. She unzipped her bag and pulled the book out again. 

     She got out of the car just as the book pulsed in her hands. The maroon leather flickered under the sun's rays, and letter by letter etched in curling gold began to bleed into existence as if summoned by the sun herself:

     'The Tales of Mathilda Beckner' 

     Arden's heart knocked against her ribs. Then, barely louder than the breeze, she heard it.

     "Arden."