The town library closed at six in the evening. The sign said so.
What the sign didn't say was that it opened again at midnight.
Cass had stayed late returning a book — later than intended, past dark — and had noticed the light on, the door ajar.
She should have walked home.
She stepped inside.
The night librarian was ancient, wore a cardigan in August, and looked at Cass over half-moon spectacles without surprise.
"Lost?" she said.
"Just late," said Cass.
"Sit down, then."
The night library worked differently to the day library. The books you needed found you, rather than the other way around. A slim volume would catch the light at the right moment. A bookmark would fall from a shelf onto your foot.
The night library held books the day library didn't stock: books of questions rather than answers. Books that began at the end. Books written by people who had never intended to be read.
Cass sat until two in the morning, reading a book about the nature of sleep that seemed to be arguing that consciousness didn't actually stop at night, merely changed its subject.
When she left, the night librarian said: "Come back when you need to."
Cass came back three more times that year. Always for different books. Always for the same reason — something she couldn't name that day-reading didn't satisfy.
She never told anyone about the night library.
Some things are better kept in the dark.