Westwick Public Library was not usually such as bustling place, but today it was particularly packed full of patrons, coming and going like an ever flowing stream with arms full of books, filing one by one up to the circulation desk and relieving their tired limbs of their burden.
The librarian worked continuously scanning library cards and swiping books across the magnetic strip, while also occasionally stopping to put a new cardholder into the system. The assistant librarian was busy returning books to their proper place on the shelves and helping people to locate a particular author.
At 5:00 exactly the last of the customers shuffled out the door and the clerk flipped the sign so that it read closed to those on the outside.
"I don't believe I've ever seen it quite so busy," the librarian said, pulling handfuls of thick brown curls off her uncomfortably warm neck and piling them on top of her head, securing the mass in place with a pencil.
"Nor have I," the assistant agreed as he put away the last of the returned books, "not in the two years I've worked here." He stretched his arms over his head and turned his neck to the side, producing a loud pop. "That's that then, I'm punching out. Have a good weekend," he yawned.
"Enjoy the rest of your evening," she said, returning to the circulation desk to gather her things. After draping her messenger bag across her chest and securing the lid to her thermos she used her free hand to scoop up the stack of books she had selected for herself before the beginning of her shift.
As always, she gave the room a last look over to ensure everything was as it should be and took a moment to admire the beauty which she never tired of; it was small but grand with the domed ceiling covered in paintings of god and goddesses and mythological creatures, the archways accented in gold and dark oak shelves that surrounded the room seperated by windows that reached from the floor to the ceiling with evening light pouring in highlighting the dustmotes dancing among the stillness of the room.
She almost hated to leave. Sometimes she day dreamed about staying the night, locking herself in and reading till the sun came up. With her better judgement she decided against it as always, so shutting off the lightswitches with her elbow and locking the doors behind her, she set off for home.
Her flat was 7 blocks East on Vine Boulevard. She always walked the same path, which consisted of a short cut through the park that separated the library and her flat. Normally she strolled, but this evening she was racing the menacing storm clouds looming over head that were quickly chasing away the sunlight, making the September sky prematurely dark and the air cool in stark contrast to the sweltering walk home from the previous evening when August went out with a heatwave.
She reached her stoop as the first drops fell, feeling victorious for winning the race. The wallclock read 5:31. She arrived home consistently between 5:31 and 5:39 depending on if she dawdled at the duck pond in the park. Thanks to the motivation of the storm clouds, she had made it home at her earliest possible time. The ducks may not be bothered by the rain, but she certainly was.
Immediately heating the stove, she began preparing her dinner. Pot pie, as it was Friday. Routine was a best and only friend to her, it made her feel secure. Structure was her favorite comfort.
Sitting on a stool at her counter and flipping through one of the borrowed library books, she ate her pot pie. After washing her empty dishes she moved to the sofa to continue her reading. When the clock chimed 8 she got her bathwater running, soaking and reading for a half hour, about the time her water began losing heat. Upon drying and dressing and making a cup of chamomile tea to bring to the bedroom, it was time for reading by lamplight until her eyes grew weary. Every night was exactly the same.
Closing her book for the night at precisely 9:55, there was one last thing to do before shutting her eyes. Opening the drawer on her nightstand she retrieved a torn page from a book she never owned, a fictional one which told stories of accounts of magic in the 14th century including witch burnings and a woman called Wendolin the Weird, a story that may prove interesting to her if not for the more important scrawl in the margins.
In messy script, a hurried note read "H.G. If you only knew, you would never forgive me, but it's for your own good. I hope one day I can come back for you. - H.P."
Rereading the cryptic message just as she did every night, she then folded the ancient looking parchment back up and returned it to the drawer. Pulling the cord of the lamp, she settled into darkness and closed her eyes.
She always fell asleep thinking about the message, not understanding it any more now than she did the first time she read it seven months prior. That was the first day she could remember.
She had found herself sitting in the park with no memory as to how she had come to be there, no memory of her own life, not even her own name. In her hands she was clutching a book. Aside from the clothes on her back which like her hair were completely soaked despite the lack of rain, that was all she had. No wallet, no identification, no recollection.
Frightened and confused, she asked a passing stranger to direct her to the nearest hospital. For five days doctors ran tests and could find no evidence of trauma to her head or nervous system, or any source of her amnesia. Even the neuro specialists were baffled.
For a total of two weeks she stayed in the hospital. Nobody came to claim her, and no reports of a missing person fitting her description surfaced. The staff had labled her Mystery Patient 13, as she was the thirteenth recorded case in history of the country to have unexplainable amnesia.
She had loathed her numeric identity. It wasn't until she reread the note she had found tucked inside the dustjacket of the book did she fashion herself a name. H.G. the initials read. After some consideration, she decided on Hera Gilmore, names she plucked from her book.
The doctors had deemed her stable, her cognition tested above average. She retained information exceedingly quick, perhaps because there was so much empty space to be filled in her mind. She memorized things with ease, convincing the doctors she would be capable of caring for herself and even fit to work.
There was a government grant for people in her condition to help provide for their needs while they get on their feet. It was enough to pay for a few months rent and food. So for two weeks she stayed in a group home while the paperwork was being processed, and when a flat became available, she moved.
With the help of her assigned case worker, she obtained a position at the library, which suited her exceptionally well. Her love of reading was the first thing she learned about herself. Perhaps a book being her sole possession should have tipped her off. In the six short months she had worked at the library, she had completed three shelves of books from the non fiction section.
Settling into a routine and adjusting the best she could, she had come a long way since finding herself in the park. Still, she had yet to make any real friends. Explaining ones lack of identity was tricky, and her life felt a bit lonesome despite the good company of books.
It was then she decided that after her usual Saturday brunch with her caseworker tomorrow, she would locate a pet store.
With that thought, she drifted to sleep where she would dream of fantastic creatures and foreign places and faces she could not put names to, even though when she woke not a single bit could ever be recalled, perhaps another effect of the amnesia.
She did not yet know that the first deviation from her strict routine would lead to the first person to recognize her for who she really was.