The cat disappeared into a drain at the edge of the park.
Nora knew she shouldn't follow it. She followed it anyway.
The drain opened into a tunnel, which opened into a staircase, which led down and down until she stepped into a room that took her breath away.
Books. Thousands of them, from floor to ceiling, on shelves carved into stone. Lanterns hung from the ceiling, their flames perfectly still. The air smelled of old paper and something else — something warm, like a house you've been happy in.
There was no one there.
Nora walked along the shelves, trailing her fingers across the spines. Titles in languages she couldn't read. Titles in English — histories, adventures, maps, recipes, field guides, poems.
She pulled one out. Inside the cover: a date. Ninety-seven years ago.
Someone had built this library and never come back.
Nora sat down on the stone floor and began to read.
She promised herself she would come back every day and read one book from cover to cover.
The cat, she noticed, had made itself comfortable on a high shelf and was already asleep.