Memories

The floorboard creaked as I stepped into the windowless room. Dimly lit, it was the size of a palatial dining hall. A small table sat in the center with one chair. No other furniture adorned the room, save the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves populated by thousands of volumes—maybe a million. The books were of different sizes and thicknesses, but all their spines looked the same: black with gold embossing. I stepped closer and furrowed my brow. Instead of titles, the spines had a series of numbers. I focused on one. 4.1.72.8:01. I’ve been to libraries and didn’t recognize the sequence as the Dewey decimal system. I sniffed the air and smelled nothing. Places like this usually had a low-level musty odor —like the stacks in my college library.

“Welcome,” a male voice said.

I spun around and squinted in the dimness as a figure emerged from a corner shadow, holding an unlit desk lamp. There were no other doors and I realized he must have been there all along. I cleared my throat and asked a question.

“Excuse me. Who are you?”

“I’m the repositor.”

“What’s a repositor?”

“Someone who stores and keeps track of things.”

He wore an outfit similar to those I’d seen on cloistered monks—a drab gray robe cinched around his waist. A cowl shrouded his head, and I couldn’t make out his face from the shadow that covered most of it. He wasn’t tall—about my height—and was average in build. Nothing else about him stood out.

“What is this place?” I asked.

“What do you think it is?” he said in return.

I glanced around. “It looks like a library.”

“Ah, yes. A library. It is that but not that.”

I drew my brows together. “I don’t understand.”

He approached the table, and the lamp switched on without his turning a knob or pushing a button. I noticed it had no cord and I assumed it must have been battery powered. He set it down, and the table was bathed in a soft glow.

He tilted his head slightly. “Do you remember how you got here?”

I rubbed my forehead. “I don’t know,” I finally said. “I was home and then suddenly I was standing at the—”

I stopped in mid-sentence when I turned toward the door I’d just passed through. It had disappeared. In its place were more volumes, neatly arranged on a bookshelf.

“What happened to the door?” I asked.

“It’s still there,” he said.

He gestured for me to come sit. I was perplexed by this man and the room full of books, but I felt no trepidation. His voice and demeanor were soothing, and I got the sensation that we might have known each other from some time before. I approached the table and sat. Although he stood only a few feet away, I still couldn’t make out his face. He clasped his hands and let them rest in front of him.

“Are you comfortable, Kevin?”

Now I knew we must have met before, but I had no recollection. “You know my name.”

“Of course. Why wouldn’t I know your name?”

“Then we have met.”

“We’ve always known each other.”

I shook my head. “I’m sorry but I really don’t understand.”

I detected the hint of a smile on the man’s face.

“Maybe this will help.”

He raised his hands and pushed the cowl from his head. I pulled backward in surprise as the lamp illuminated a familiar face with dark hair and hazel-colored eyes.

I was staring at myself.

“Okay. This is really weird. Why do you look like me?”

“So, you don’t remember how you got here?”

“I already said I didn’t.”

He flicked a finger at one of the bookshelves at the far end of the room. A volume left its spot nestled among the other books and floated toward us until it lighted on the table.

“How . . . how did you do that?” I asked.

“That’s not important. Open it and look.”

With my brow knitted, I flipped the cover, turned the first few pages, and my gaze fell on a series of images. They were of me. They looked like photographs, but they weren’t still pictures. They moved, as though a video were playing within the square frame containing each. In the first one, I was at home, in the kitchen, standing before the stove stirring spaghetti sauce in a pan. The aroma from the tomatoes and garlic wafted upward. I was singing a tune, a Bette Midler song. “Do You Wanna Dance?” I brought the wooden spoon to my mouth and tasted.

“Mmmm,” I said.

In the next image, I stopped in mid-lyric, as my face twisted into a grimace. I gasped for air and reached for my phone. I heard my voice asking for help. In the subsequent image, I was falling to the floor. There were no more images after that. I closed the book and looked at the spine. 5.5.22.18:03. Realization struck.

“That’s a date. And a time.”

He nodded.

I thought for a minute. “Isn’t that today’s date?”

“It is.”

I reflected on the day, and then I remembered. I was preparing dinner when I felt a sharp pain. It shot from my chest down my left arm. I reached for my phone and punched in 911.

“Help! I think I’m having a heart—”

And then everything went dark.

I looked up at my doppelgänger.

“Now you remember,” he said.

He pointed at the book, and it lifted from the table, then glided back to its spot on the shelf. He looked at me.

“Do you understand now?”

“This isn’t a library. It’s . . . it’s a repository.”

“It is.”

“Of memories.”

“Of your memories. Every one that is stored inside you is here.” He swept his hand around as he gestured toward all the volumes.

That’s why he looked like me. Had I entered my own mind? But how? It didn’t make sense.

“Let me explain,” he said. “I’m called the repositor, but I am what most people would call your unconscious self. I live here and keep track of everything that’s ever happened to you. All these books contain images, sounds, smells, and other things from the time you were born until, well, when you stop being alive.”

I swallowed. “You mean when I die.”

He didn’t respond.

“Am I dead or dying?”

“No. Not yet anyway.”

“How do you know?”

This time, he smiled broadly. “That’s all we have during our final moments. As we attempt to cling to life, memories come flooding back before the repository blinks out of existence. If you were dying, you’d be sitting here, and volumes would be flying off the shelves for you to peruse before you ceased being.”

A chill ran up my spine. Where was I at this moment, then? If what he said was true, I had to be alive somewhere else. But in what condition? I lowered my gaze and shook my head.

“I have no desire to visit any memories,” I said. I looked up at him.

“I can see.” Something off to the side caught his attention. “Ah.”

He pointed to where I had entered. The door had reappeared.

“Just as I told you,” he said.

“Then, I can leave.”

“You most certainly can.”

I stood. “I’m not sure what to make of all this. Maybe I’m imagining it. Maybe I’m lying in a hospital room and the drugs they’ve given me have screwed up my mind. Maybe I’m asleep and dreaming, nothing more.”

The repositor shrugged. “That could be. But I have a feeling we will meet again someday.”

I shivered.

“Well, this has all been interesting. I . . . uh . . . I think I’ll leave now.”

“Goodbye, Kevin. Take care.”

I offered a slight nod in return and then headed for the exit. I turned to take in the room one last time. The repositor had vanished, along with his lamp. All that remained were the volumes crowding the four walls. I drew in a deep breath, turned, and grasped the knob.

I had no idea what would be on the other side of that door.