The rain fell softly over the old town of Varanasi, casting a silvery mist over its crumbling rooftops and winding alleys. Hidden behind a wall of overgrown bougainvillaea was a library that few remembered, and those who did — chose not to speak of it.
Aarav, 16, wandered into the alley chasing a street dog that had stolen his mother’s red dupatta. He’d never noticed the black iron gate before. Its hinges creaked open on their own, revealing a moss-covered courtyard and, in the center, a worn marble plaque:
"Library of Forgotten Things."
He stepped in.
It smelled of old paper, rain, and something... ancient. The walls were lined with towering shelves, yet there was no one around. No librarian. No register. Just silence.
Curious, Aarav ran his fingers along the spine of a leather-bound book. It was blank—no title, no author, no number. He opened it.
Suddenly, a sharp jolt buzzed through his fingertips.
Then—nothing.
---
"Aarav! Beta, where were you?!" his mother cried that evening, her face drenched in relief and panic.
He blinked at her. “…Sorry, Ma. I think I got lost.”
He didn’t mention the library. Or the strange book.
But as he lay in bed that night, he realized he couldn’t remember the name of his childhood best friend. Or how his father had died last year. Even the face of his favorite teacher—gone.
One by one, memories were dissolving. Like ink in water.
---
The next morning, he returned to the alley. The dog was gone. But the gate stood open again.
Inside the library, the books hummed—softly. As if alive.
An old woman sat behind a wooden desk this time, knitting something invisible with her bony fingers.
"You came back," she said without looking up.
"I... I read a book yesterday," Aarav said. "Now I can't remember things."
She nodded slowly. "This library doesn’t store stories. It stores memories. Each book you read here takes one."
"Why?" he asked.
She finally looked at him—her eyes clouded, yet sharp. "Some people come to forget pain. A heartbreak. A death. A mistake. Others come by accident, like you. But once you read, the trade begins."
He swallowed hard. "Can I get my memories back?"
"No," she whispered. "But you can leave them behind... willingly. Choose what to forget. Not everything deserves to be carried forever."
---
He came back every week.
At first, he tried not to open any books. But one day, he picked one with a red ribbon. A memory of the day his father had collapsed in the hospital, begging for breath, disappeared.
It was a cruel memory. A heavy one.
But later that night, he couldn’t remember his father’s laugh either.
The library never gave you precision.
Only weight.
---
One day, he met a girl.
She was sitting cross-legged on the floor, holding a pale blue book.
"I come here to forget my sister," she said, before he even introduced himself.
"Why?" Aarav asked.
"Because she died, and I was the one driving."
Her fingers trembled as she held the book. “But every time I forget her death, I also forget her hugs. Her voice. Her stupid obsession with lemon pickle.”
"So why keep coming back?"
"Because sometimes… forgetting feels kinder than remembering."
They sat together for a while. Silent. Honest.
---
Aarav grew older. The world outside moved forward, but the library stayed untouched by time. He came less frequently, then not at all.
Years passed.
One August evening, in his late twenties, he found himself back in that alley. A familiar smell lingered. Paper. Rain. Regret.
He stepped inside.
The old woman was still there, older somehow. Still knitting nothing.
"Ah. The boy who forgot his father," she said softly.
Aarav nodded. “I remember almost nothing about him now.”
“But you remember peace,” she said. “That’s what you came for.”
He walked to a shelf marked “Unopened.” Picked up a green book.
“I want to forget her,” he whispered.
“Your mother?”
He nodded slowly. “She passed last night. Peacefully. But the grief—it’s louder than anything I’ve known.”
She said nothing, just nodded toward the chair.
He opened the book.
---
Outside, the rain had stopped. The alley was quiet again.
Aarav walked out of the gate, his shoulders light, his face calm.
But his steps paused at the corner.
He looked back at the alley, confused.
"...Strange. What was I doing here?"
He turned and walked home.
The library, behind him, closed its doors.
Waiting for the next soul who wished to forget.
Written by The Team Inspire
Published by Novel Mint Publishing