Back to Work

“Good morning, Ms. Mori. You’re here early today,” the night guard greets me as I approach the library. He’s right, I’m not usually here this early, but I hadn’t slept well anyway, so I figured I might as well make use of the campus fitness center to wake up properly. And use the shower. The shiny new shower cabin back home still stands pristine and unused.

“Good morning, Mr. Sato.” I turn to him with a smile, "Everything's well, I hope."

“Yes, everything's in order, miss. Enjoy your day.”

“Thank you.” 

He bows politely before leaving, while I climb the wide stairs to the library entrance. It’s dark behind the glass doors, but that’s no surprise since it’s barely seven in the morning. Most of us clock in between eight and nine. I unclip my ID card from the chest pocket of my black dress jacket and hold it to the sensor. It springs to life with a digital ‘Welcome, Ms Mori.’ and the door clicks open.

The soft soles of my shoes are almost soundless against the stone tiles as I move through the dark rooms, past shelves and desks, on my way to the staff room. And the coffee machine. As it splutters coffee -- extra-large latte, extra foam -- into my cup, I inhale deeply. The familiar scents of coffee and books are relaxing. Homey.

It’s good to be back.

Even though we’re not officially open yet, I carry my cup to the main desk and start one of the computers. Today is Monday, so unless there are any special requests or deliveries, this is where I’ll be. I usually prefer my hours in the archive, especially in the restricted rooms. However, after a quiet weekend, I’m looking forward to helping students and making small talk with my colleagues. Catch up with the latest news. Or, gossip… the campus is always buzzing with it.

Sipping my coffee, the caffeine slowly starting to do its job, I spot two overfilled reshelving carts close to the wall. The sound as I huff through my nose sounds ominous in the silence.

Two weeks. Less than two weeks I’ve been gone, and this is how they take care of things?

One trolley is filled with normal books, ready to go back on the shelves, but the other one… That one holds neat stacks of old volumes individually stored in soft white fabric. Not so fragile that they require a climate-controlled room, but they really shouldn’t be out here either. Someone has been sloppy, and I intend to find out who.

While I wait for the rest of the staff to arrive I take the first trolley and roll out, returning books to their allotted slots. It’s relaxing, and while it’s not the most exciting part of my job, it’s still satisfying. I’m almost done by the time the main doors click open, the overhead lights turn on and soft footsteps approach.

“Aki! You’re back. It’s so good to see you again. I hope you had a nice vacation. At your parents’, right?” As always, Mika talks a little too fast, as if the only way to get the words out is to shoot them out rapidly. Vacation? Did I have a nice vacation? I take a deep breath and plaster a smile on my face,

“Yes, thank you. How’ve you been?” I give her a stern look and nod toward the other trolley with an insinuating, “Busy?”

She smiles sheepishly, not intimidated. She never is and maybe that’s why she’s my closest… not quite friend but almost, here.

“I know. Sorry. They arrived last Friday, but as you know, neither Mr. Masuda nor I has clearance for the archive rooms.”

Ah, a fair point. At the moment, I’m the only librarian with access, besides the heads of the individual humanitarian disciplines, some of the doctorates, and, of course, the Principal.

“It’s okay. I’ll take care of them today.”

“Thank you.” She beams at me, and I try to keep a stern face even though I’ve long since resigned to the fact that it’s impossible to be angry at Mika for more than a few seconds. “It really is great to have you back. Not only because you’re my favorite colleague…” I roll my eyes as she chuckles sweetly. “...but we’re going to have so much to do starting next week.”

“Next week?” I try to wrestle some memory from my brain, but draw a blank.

“The upcoming exhibition, remember? The collab between our history department and that university in Germany… Regarding witchcraft and occultism in different cultures, from the European Middle Ages until now.”

Occultism? I scoff in my mind, but keep a polite smile and nod. That’s clearly the reason I didn’t remember it at first.

“Right, I almost forgot. Professor Kawano has been preparing for months.” Head of the department, strict, but a great tutor. You always spoke highly of him. And I’m still grateful he sent you to the library that day. The day I first saw you.

“Yes. We’re taking in extra help for the desk. There’ll be a large shipment with lots of books, scrolls, even artefacts, so you’ll be in charge of the archive. Full-time.”

“Excellent.” For the first time in many days, my heart lifts in joy at the implication. Despite my young age, I’m good at my job. Very good. And it’s nice to have it recognized. Also, having a task of this magnitude to focus on should be good. Help me ‘move on’. I’ve read several articles on the subject, and it seems to be a valid theory.

The doors buzz open again, allowing a group of students to file in. Quietly taking seats at the desks, setting up laptops and talking in hushed whispers as they prepare to start the day. A couple of girls are already waiting by the main desk, so we start toward it.

“Were you at the funeral? You know, for the student who…” She says it casually, unaware of how my whole system freezes while she keeps chatting. As if it’s just any other piece of gossip. The floor spins under my feet. “I heard it was… different, but very beautiful.”

I mumble something in agreement, something about how the parents had successfully incorporated both cultures into the ceremony. There had been beautiful elements, yes. Especially the flower arrangements were wonderful. That didn’t take away the fact that it was horrible. ‘Funerals are for the living’ -- to provide comfort, closure --  I’ve heard this saying often, and perhaps it’s true for some. Not for me. Not this funeral.

“It must have meant a lot to them, seeing how many people came.”

“Yes, I’m sure it did. She’s a … I mean, she was a very kind person.” Yes you are kind. You’re soft and often skittish, but you’re always sweet and kind.

“Right, I almost forgot… Didn't she rent your spare room?”

“Yes, she did.” My mind is sluggish, my tongue and lips struggling to form the words. Keep the tone neutral. “She was a lovely person, it’s no wonder she was popular.” Or, maybe, a lot of people showed up just to gawk at the foreign girl one last time.

Your parents might have loved the crowd, but not you. You never could stand crowds. They suffocate you and not only because you always stand out with your height and your honey colored hair… your beauty…

“Then you must have known her more than most of the students,” Mika points out with a sad little smile. I nod, though my mind is screaming in objection. No, not well enough. Not enough to matter.

A sour taste fills my mouth as my mind takes me back. The wind was soft, smelling of fresh spring leaves. Your parents stood stiffly next to your picture as people stepped forward offering bows and quiet condolences. Other relatives stood with them. But not me. I stood with the university staff, watching from a distance. One of the last to step forward with my offering of incense. Rose scented. Your favorite.

“I’m sorry for your loss.” Mika’s soft words startle me. She’s the first to utter them, and the now familiar lump in my throat grows back. Loss. Though you're still so real.

“Thank you.”

“I guess you'll advertise for a new roommate soon? I’m sure many…” Her voice drowns in the rush of blood pounding in my ears as the room shrinks, leaving me no air to breathe.

A new roommate? As if that’s all you were.

As if you can be replaced.