The Librarian of First Sentences

The Library of Beginnings occupied a single, long room lined with narrow drawers. Each drawer contained cards, each card bearing a first sentence from a story, novel, speech, or diary that had never been finished or had gone missing. The librarian, Ana, guarded them. People visited when they were stuck, when they needed a spark. They would pull a drawer, close their eyes, and pick. The first sentence they drew was theirs to continue, obligation and gift.

The origins of the library were murky. Legend said a writer donated their unused openings to prevent them from haunting. Others claimed Ana had collected them from discarded drafts. She never clarified. She cataloged obsessively, cross-referencing by tone, era, and theme. “It was a bright cold day in April…” lived near “When I was thirteen, I learned to hold my breath.” Some openings were mundane, some electric.

Rules were strict: you could not put a sentence back. You had to write something with it within a year. If you failed, the sentence whispered to you in sleep. Many returned to show Ana what they made. She’d nod, adding a note to the card: “Became a poem about loss” or “Spawned a sci-fi trilogy.” Some sentences were drawn often, inspiring multiple works. Others languished, too weird or too plain. Ana loved those. “They’re waiting for the right person,” she said.

One day, the government declared the library a national asset. “We must regulate intellectual property,” an official said. Ana barred the door. Writers gathered in protest. “You cannot own beginnings,” they chanted. The official left, confused. The library remained quietly rebellious.

Ana aged. She worried about succession. She trained Mateo, a shy teen who spent afternoons reading openings aloud. She taught him the rituals: how to soothe an anxious drawer, how to recognize when a visitor needed a certain genre. She taught him to listen to sentences. “They have moods,” she said. “Don’t force a horror opening on someone seeking romance.”

One stormy night, a leak threatened the drawers. Ana and Mateo moved sentences to higher shelves. In the rush, one card slipped. Ana picked it up. “This is the last sentence I will ever catalog,” it read. She froze. She had never seen that one. She put it in the “miscellaneous” drawer, shaken. Days later, she died peacefully at her desk. Mateo found her with a smile. He found the card. He decided to honor it by writing with it. He penned a story about a librarian who knew when to stop collecting and start living. The story ended with the same sentence, closing a loop.

The library continued under Mateo. He added new openings from digital sources, arguing that a tweet could be a first sentence. Purists balked. He ignored them. He digitized the catalog but kept the drawers. Writers still came, reverently pulling cards. The government tried again to claim the library. Mateo brandished the protest slogan: “Beginnings belong to everyone.” They backed off, wary of bad PR.

Somewhere, a drawer remained filled with untouched openings. Mateo sometimes opened it, feeling their weight. He didn’t draw. He liked knowing there were always more starts than endings. It made the world feel endless and full of potential, like the pause before the first word of a story.