Tom could never get a straight answer about whether the Library was actually, literally, infinite. The old man, who’d been there since Tom arrived, did not mince words, or give out straightforward answers. Tom tried asking in myriad ways to no avail.

Tom had been working at the Library for what felt like eons. Day and nights did not exist here. There were no lights to turn on and off, just perpetual daylight pouring in through substantial windows. Tom had asked if there was a room without them. There was, and it was lit by candlelight. The wicks did not need replacing. There were hundreds of candles, and a few adjoining studies with more burning candles. The rooms with candles were also filled with texts translating one language to another. Mostly to English. The old man had told him to start learning the languages of the books, as this ability would soon be needed. When Tom asked why, he told him because he needed to be able to “find all the books.”

Tom had been dead a while, and was now studying the Library, familiarizing himself with the sections, getting to know all the different species on all the different planets who had mastered the science of binding books and filing texts and adapting ink to sunlight while the beings who’d written them had been alive. It was a daunting task that Tom did not enjoy. But he loved books. He loved reading. He did not love learning the billions of languages contained in apparently every book and journal and thought piece and poem ever saved on anything vaguely resembling a computer, or bound in anything resembling a book, or scribbled on anything resembling paper. He assumed, since he loved books and had suddenly appeared in a giant library right after he died, this studying was his role in the afterlife.

The irritability of it made it difficult for Tom to know what kind of stay in the afterlife he was experiencing. Whenever he asked the old man, he was told to keep looking. When Tom asked for what, the old man always said, “for the books.”

One day, or what Tom assumed was still a day, the old man approached him blankly, hands at his sides, staring as Tom poured over a verb conjugation table from a language on a planet hundreds of light years from the one he’d lived on while alive.

“You have an inquiry,” the old man stated.

“I’m sorry?”

“You have an inquiry,” he repeated.

“I heard you, sir. It’s just that, up until now, I have only seen you and me in this place. Who could it possibly be from?”

“This is the Library,” he said.

“I know,” began Tom, “but I sort of assumed…”

“That you would be the only one in here forever? That no one else would need the largest bank of information in the highest plane of existence?”

Tom stared back. This did not affect the old man.

“Do you remember where the front desk is?”

“Yes,” Tom sighed.

He closed the manual, tried to blow out a candle to see if he could, which did nothing, and hustled out of the room.

At the immense wooden desk stood a human woman. Middle aged, Tom guessed, pale skin, smooth, sheening black hair, dark eyes, and maroon lipstick. She wore an off-white sweater, plain. Tom suddenly became aware that he too had been wearing clothes when he had shown up in the Library. He hadn’t changed because there was never a time when he woke up, because he never slept. But he was wearing his favorite outfit, the one that hid his love handles. An orange sweater and blue boat shoes. He shook himself out of thinking about this, and smiled at the woman, placing his hands flat on the opposite side of the desk.

“How may I help you?” he asked.

“我在找一本書,” the woman replied.

On many of the television programs and in books Tom had enjoyed back home, situations like this always had automatic translators. He momentarily cursed plot convenience in literature, and continued. He made the universal sign gesture for books and reading, putting his hands together as if praying, and then opened them, still keeping his pinkies together, holding them at a right angle, and then moving his face in the direction of his open palms. The woman beamed and nodded.

He looked around. No sign of the old man. He looked under the desk. He never noticed before, but a wooden block sat in the center of the back and had large engraved letters which said ‘English.’ Next to it, another engraving said ‘Español.’ Another said ‘Francé.’ He had only gone behind the desk once, and that was to look for a pen. All kinds of languages were represented. A lever was in between English and Gaelic, and he turned it. The desk stayed put, but new languages rolled in on the right, while others departed on the left, as if they were in a queue.

He stopped though, aware his fascination may be noticed by this person in front of him. He rolled back to English, and then looked around. He read more markings, hoping one might be her language. Should he point to English first, just in case? Should he have her come behind the desk? He touched the English panel. It popped out slightly. He grabbed it, and it slid out easily, the drawer becoming a wooden tray, with paper in it. In it was a literature request form, written in English. He held the English writing out to her, the tray balanced on his fingertips. She furrowed her brow and tilted her head. He placed it back in the compartment. He also tried French in case someone was watching, assuming he’d typecast her, but she shook her head. Then he tried the familiar symbols which he hoped would work, and after 5 tries they found a match. She gleefully nodded her head.

She motioned for a pen, to which he instinctively padded his pockets. He hadn’t found one since he’d gotten there. But he felt the familiar shape in his breast pocket. He reached in, and found an exact replica of the pen which his grandmother had given him as a gift following his commencement from Stanford. It was silver and caught the light from the windows perfectly. He smiled and rapped his fingers against the cherry wood of the desk while she filled out the form. She handed it to him, and went to sit on a plush purple chair across the room, hands folded in her lap, enjoying the scenery outside. The trees were always in autumn.

He took the form back to the candle lit room and worked on translating the text. Tom had already started stockpiling translation dictionaries in what he was beginning to refer to as his office. If the woman really was just going to wait, he could see why few people made inquiries. By the time he translated, found the language, looked up the book, found the section, found the book, verified the edition, it was be the worldly equivalent of hours or perhaps days. And this was only for books. The housings for newspapers, computer files, and magazines were immense, and there were even whole annexes for etchings and incomplete manuscripts. Once, Tom thought he walked by a room labeled ‘napkin diagrams’ and shuddered, hoping he had read the sign wrong.

After hours of research, he stood in front of a stack, puzzled. The book should be right here. Based on what he understood as the Chinese alphabet and the system of the library in the English buildings, he was sure of it. Yet it wasn’t there.

“What are you doing? She is still waiting for her book,” the old man said from behind, startling Tom.

“All right,” he said irritably, “then where is it? It should be right here.” Tom pointed and frowned.

“Yes, it should.”

“Has it been moved? We don’t have system for checking that sort of thing, do we?”

“We do not.”

“So then how am I supposed to find it?”

“It will be your first assignment.”

“I know. I’m in the middle of it right now, sir. But I need help. Humans like to be told things.”

“Yes. This is why I took the form of a human, so I may have a mouth, but more importantly, ears.”

“Yes, fantastic, now what is our system for finding books?!”

“You.”

Tom threw the request form on the carpeted floor and stomped off. He sat in the leather chair he liked to read in inside his office. He noticed something after he stopped huffing for a while. He smelled smoke. He looked around hurriedly, and saw a candle had snuffed out. The old man walked in.

“One of these candles just went out. Why?”

“Your first author is here,” he replied.

“Author?”

“Yes.”

“She is an author?”

“Yes, and she is ready for her book to be shelved. That is why she put in the request form. She would like you to retrieve her book.”

Tom sat up. “From where?”

“Come with me,” said the old man.

They walked past the woman, who sat stoically in her chair, looking out the window. They walked past the periodicals, past the doors to other languages and worlds and the imaginations of countless lifeforms. They turned a corner that Tom only ever noticed from his peripheral. The walkway was shaded by an outstretched wall which angled toward the entrance.

They walked through the only uncarpeted part of the Library Tom had seen. A hardwood floor led up to a steel door. It had symbols written in no language system Tom recognized, and he’d been parsing through a lot lately. They were at eye level, supposedly labeling whatever was behind the door.

“Here,” said the old man, hand on the door.

“Her book is through here? Am I to assume this is…is the same place I’m from?”

“Earth? Yes. We thought another human would be a good place for you to start. She is also trying to sort out her beforelife.”

“That’s what I’m doing?”

“Yes.”

“And you’ve been helping me?”

“No, that is not my job.”

“You say that a lot. What is your job?”

“To show you where this door is. When you go through, I won’t be here when you come back.”

“How will I know when I’m finished?” Tom asked.

“When you find her book,” the old man answered.

“No, no. When I’m done sorting my beforelife.”

“When the last candle goes out. Good luck.”

The old man smiled at him, then walked off. Tom was alone. He placed a hand on the golden handle, turned it, and slowly opened the heavy steel door. Inside was a humid apartment in a crowded city. It shook Tom’s senses, as he’d been in a temperature-controlled environment for so long. The window was open. He hoped no one was inside.

The apartment was messy. Red paper lanterns, unfinished food boxes on counters, pictures of friends and family on cork boards. The TV was still on. The wind from the open sliding door in the back moved the paper inside a box ominously. He saw a book, sitting in the box with parcel paper surrounding it.  He stepped further inside, and picked up the book. Tom opened to the back, scanning the jacket. There was the woman from the front cover, smiling at him. This was her book.

He went back through the door, which on the Earth side had been the woman’s closet. She beamed when she saw her book in his hands. He held it out to her. She waved her hand, saying she didn’t want it. She gave him some sort of salutation which he took to mean goodbye, or perhaps thank you. She left, practically skipping.

He was glad for a job well done, and was also glad for some solitude. After shelving the book, he went back to his office and continued his studies, trying not to count the candles.

Brian Rosten is a middle school science teacher in Champaign, IL. He writes short stories and spends time with his wife and twin babies.