In Elsewhere, there is said to be one book that contains all the other books.
Not copies of them.
Their possibilities.
Every story that was written.
Every story abandoned halfway through.
Every sentence deleted at three in the morning.
Every book someone intended to write but never did.
It contains books from the future too, although those shelves are notoriously difficult to locate.
The librarians call it The Book of Books.
Naturally, it cannot be found in the catalog.
Some say it has eleven chapters.
Others insist there are twelve, but the eleventh refuses to end.
Ms. Understood once found a reference to it in her Red Book.
There was only one sentence:
THE BOOK OF BOOKS MAY NOT BE READ.
IT READS YOU.
She stared at the page.
Then turned it.
The next page was blank.
Except for a small handwritten note:
You always do that.
Ms. Understood did not appreciate being accurately observed.
She closed the book.
Elsewhere, being Elsewhere, did not consider the matter finished.
Somewhere deep inside the Library of Y’all, another book quietly opened.
Missy had found the Book of Books.
Or, more accurately, the Book of Books had found Missy.
She opened it.
The pages were blank.
She turned another.
Blank.
Another.
Still blank.
The Book of Books had one irritating rule:
It reads you first.
Every time Missy opened it, the pages remained blank while the book wandered through her memories, her unfinished questions, and several private things she had specifically not invited it to examine.
Missy tried reading faster.
Nothing.
She tried starting at the end.
Nothing.
She tried holding it upside down.
The book appeared unimpressed.
Then Missy noticed something.
Whenever she stopped trying to understand the blank page, a word appeared.
Only for a second.
So she stopped reading.
She simply looked.
Another word appeared.
Then another.
Missy smiled.
Of course.
You could not read the Book of Books while trying to tell it who you were.
You had to let it finish reading you first.
And once it had, the pages began returning what they had found.
Not exactly as memories.
Not exactly as stories.
Something between the two.
Missy turned the page.
For the first time, it was full of words.
At the top was a small note:
THANK YOU FOR YOUR PATIENCE.
Missy raised an eyebrow.
“I wasn’t patient. I figured you out.”
The words disappeared.
A new sentence appeared.
THAT IS WHAT YOU THINK.
Missy smiled.
Now they were reading each other.
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