I walk up the steps to enter a building that looks like it’s been standing here since the Victorian era. Roman numerals are etched above the gigantic wooden double doors. The bricks have weathered, and the planters protecting the entrance are rustic now. I look past the pillars, where statues of cement lions lie, unhindered by the cold, icy breeze. My eyes tear up as I leave the chill to enter the warm air; it hits like a gust of steam from a boiling pot. The only skin that is exposed is my face, and it numbs instantly.

Inside the huge dome ceilings display the intricate carvings of ancient times. The stained glass windows and walls of bookshelves take me back to my childhood. I would come to this very library to study, to do research, or use it as an excuse to get away from home. It was a meeting point with friends when we skipped school.

It never dawned on me back then, how everything has a history holding on to it. The library is situated in my hometown city center, protected by an iron railing and surrounded by the town traffic. The spiral staircase and coat of arms emblems plastered throughout the corridors remind me of the monarchy-led country I was born in.

Readers line the long wooden tables, and groups of students cuddle together in the glass booths on the second floor. I see my younger self seated in a corner, whispering and giggling with friends. The librarian staff walk with authority, as they help navigate through the maze of books. Their neatly pinned hair pulled back from their pale faces. Each one is dressed in pencil skirts and tucked shirts, their life dedicated to books.

It’s quiet except for the noise of turning pages, the bustle of paper, and faint whispers. That era was articulated by paper; there was no other way to find what it was you were looking to educate yourself on. I look around now and wonder how I navigated the thousands of books housed here. It wasn’t that long ago, and yet it seems like a lifetime has passed.

I left my dad in the town center and told him I needed a book. He had no interest in coming along, and so I ventured back in time, alone. It was a little bit of nostalgia that made my heart want to cry. I wished to travel back to when things were simple for me. The bittersweet past and wistful longing of affection made this journey hard. I want to be back home with mum and dad, where my only fear was the excuse I would give them for my whereabouts, and this library would save me. Life became so complicated in just a few short years.

I find a seat on the steps, unbundle, and watch the crowd of people before me. The random book I picked up has a worn hardcover from the many hands that have touched it. The gold embossing is still shining through somehow. I open it and flick through the pages. Word after word flows into eternity. My thoughts override the desire to read. I remember how I read and read, and not once did I read about the life I was now living. Every isle has a name, and every shelf has a label, and yet not one book within those isles and shelves can show me the reasons why I fell prey.

I wasn’t lying to my Dad. I did need a book, one that doesn’t exist. I needed a book to tell me how to manage without my mother, and to live without her. A book that could help me understand how my father decided to replace her. I looked for one book that could teach me how to survive alone a million miles away. A book that would have educated me on how to mother my siblings. I wanted a book that showed me how to navigate a broken marriage.

This library only taught me how to understand words and numbers, to study hard for exams, and to be prepared and poised. I stand here looking for that one book that will help me understand why I became a victim. Books failed to teach me the raw lessons of life. They taught me the words but failed to uncover the true meaning of the experiences I was thrown into. Not one book in this monumental library could teach me how to survive. How a young woman barely entering her twenties stumbled upon reasons not to want to live this life anymore.