It was two o'clock on a Thursday at the library, and Connor Rose found himself alone behind his mahogany desk, watching the dust rise through the open window.
He dared not move. His joints were not paining him for the moment, but he knew that would change the moment he used them. Worst thing was, he could no longer swallow a painkiller without water and the tap was miles away.
2015, he thought with a sigh. I made it this far.
That's what he'd thought last year. And the year before that. He'd been determined to go out on a high note, but that was seeming more and more impossible with every passing month. He almost wished he'd just snuffed in '98, that heart attack should have been the end.
Still, Connor didn't have the stomach to kill himself. Or the means, by that logic. His wrists hadn't enough control to wield a knife, and with his luck he would probably end up with a bleeding collar bone, not a slit throat.
He glanced at the old grandfather clock ticking away directly across from his desk. Only five minutes had passed. Marie would be back in half an hour.
His assistant was woefully underpaid, he knew, but she seemed to like the library enough to stick around. Connor was grateful for her and her youth, without which the library would have crumbled into ruins long ago. Marie not only shelved books, manned the check out station and helped to take care of him, but she also did handy work around the place. Man's work, if you were to ask Connor. Anyone's money, if you were to ask Marie.
She was out right now, though. A shipment of used books were coming in at Hartford station. She was out to pick them up.
In the 1940's, Connor remembered his older sister joining the WAC, he didn't even remember what it stood for. Women helping to fight a war. It seemed crazy at the time, but now he could see it. He could see Claudia marching shoulder to shoulder with brave men, defending the country. He could see Marie doing the same thing.
But she was out, picking up books. That was why he screamed when he hear the curtain pull back.
Marie was the only one who was allowed back there, and there was no one else in the library. Yet there was the distinct scrape of the metal rings on the curtain rod, stirring up a great tornado in Connor's fragile heart. He turned, as quickly as he could with his old bones, and was startled to see someone dreadfully familiar.
Brown hair, he had, and these crystal blue eyes that complimented his boyish grin and clean shaven face. He wore a leather jacket and bellbottom jeans. Oh Lord, it had been awhile since Connor had seen a pair of those. Despite that, the guy was undeniably good looking.
"Yes!" The man exclaimed. "You're here!"
Connor tried to respond, but the younger man beat him to it.
"Connor! Hi, Connor, you're Connor, isn't that great?"
Connor furrowed his brow. "May I help you?"
"Yes, yes," the man muttered, unzipping the bag slung over his shoulder. He produced a thick book with no title or cover illustration and slapped it down on the desk in front of Connor.
"Is this overdo sir?" he asked, fighting the feeling that this man was far too familiar. He saw those eyes, and he remembered them as if he had seen through them himself.
The man shook his head wildly, throwing his mop of brown hair back and forth. "Nope, it's not from here."
"Then why did you bring it to me?"
"Look, old man," he said, looking either way as if there was anyone to eavesdrop. "This is the most important thing you're ever gonna do, okay? So listen carefully."
Connor shifted in his chair, becoming more and more uncomfortable as the man's face grew closer to his own.
"I need you to read this book, okay? And I need it done before midnight, tonight. Marie won't be back till then but when she is, you had better be here, alright? And the book's gotta be finished. You understand? Okay, good." Without waiting for a response from the old man, the guy pushed away from the mahogany desk and turned to leave.
"Wait!" Connor called, his frail voice echoing through the empty book shelves. "Why? Where's Marie? And who are you? Why should I help you? You have no respect, young man!"
The man finally stopped as Connor shouted. He turned back toward the desk and said, "lookit, Connor, my man, your name's Connor, my name's Connor. Your last name is Rose, and so is mine. And I have your wallet!" The man pulled a leather pouch out of his pocket, knocking Connor's heart out of rhythm.
"B-but, so do I." He too produced the leather pouch, bearing the exact same creases, same faded lettering.
The man sighed. "You'd think you wouldn't gotten a new one by now. But see! This proves it, I'm Connor Rose, and I am telling you to read the goddamn book!"
269Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ4MmBgHEz3N
