9:57 PM The library is almost empty. The hush is thick, the lights half-dimmed. And there, the same old librarian you remember from childhood, Mr Warriner. Weathered skin the colour of old paper, the faint smell of dust and forgotten summers, and those sharp, watchful eyes behind his spectacles. He used to shush you when you ran down the aisles. He doesn’t look a day older now… though you can’t quite remember him ever looking young.

He watches you drift through the maze of shelves. You notice an illuminated side room, a glow like a spotlight, impossibly warm in the gloom. On a plinth sits a book of children’s rhymes, pages slightly open as if breathing.

There’s a little sign beside it: “All children must walk the Path of Rhyme. All childhoods pass, the will of Time. Listen carefully to each truth when said. Silly or solemn. Leave no rhyme unread. Should the rhyme pass into rage. End them swift, and turn the page.”

The rest of the library lies in shadow. You step closer.

You read the first line of the first book.

Wee Willie Winkie runs through the town, Up stairs and down stairs in his night-gown, Tapping at the window, crying at the lock, Are the children in their bed, for it's past ten o'clock?

The door slams behind you, and footsteps pass the door, quick, certain, determined.

A rheumy eye looks through the lock on the door.

"Are the weans in their bed, for it's now ten o'clock?"

The library clock clock chimes the hour of 10pm, and the door won't open.

You turn back to the book, the sole source of illumination for the children's wing of the library, and start to read.

Index

Choose a nursery rhyme, or let the library pick for you.