Live Once, Dream Always

The bookstore was crammed with shelves. Filled boxes decorated the empty spaces. Stacks and stacks of hard covers and paperbacks hugged the floor. An old register waited by the front door. Signs overhead told where to go and what waits there, and narrow eyes shined through a pair of spectacles. And the grandfather clock counted down every breath that she took.

"Nothing today, miss?" The elderly man seemed disappointed. "You always buy something."

"Not today, I guess." Something glinted on the shelf over his head. "What's that?"

"What's what?" He followed her gaze. "This?"

It was a small book that fit perfectly in the palm of his hand. It was made of ivory, and the pages were tinted with gold. As she flipped it open, she found his words carved into the pages. There was no copyright date or name of author. It was a strange object, but she found that she could not let it go. Instead, she thumbed through it, drinking in the one that now spoke to her.

"The front door stood ajar. I could leave. I could step outside and never come back. The world was mine, if I ran to it, but I always look back. I worry about the ones that I will leave behind, afraid that they cannot fend for themselves. I can't be free, if they can't be free, so I won't leave. And the door closes before me."

"Found something after all, miss?"

"I did." Her hand folded over it. "How much?"

"For you?" The elderly man rubbed his chin. "Twenty bucks."

A few minutes later, she stepped outside. A bell jingled a farewell before the glass door slammed closed. Traffic buzzed along the street, and lights flashed green and red. The hands of time raced against the other, signaling the approach of the bus. Pedestrians moved around her as if she were nothing but a shadow, and her hand closed tighter over the book. And she held it against her chest, letting his heart touch hers, but who was he?

"There is no reason to tell you my name. I am another ghost that walks this world, and the world will forget me. There is no reason to know my story because a million like it are written every single day. There is no reason to know when I lived or how I died because my legacy does not rest there. My soul rests here in the pages, where I now dream. My heart is yours to find."

The bus was crowded again. There were seats open in the back, but she preferred the front. Granted, the bus driver was oblivious to his passengers, or he did not care to get involved with the bicker that sometimes went on. He just stopped at his routine stops, letting people on and off, and she would busy herself by staring out the window at a world that still did not know her. And she wanted to break free, run as far as she could, but where would she run to?

She was bound by responsibility. Like the silent author, she was trapped. She could leave. The door was open, but what waited on the other side? Could she survive? Was it worth the risk, and what about those that she left behind? Could they fend for themselves, or did she need to be there, remain by their side? How could she just leave them, but what about her? When does she start to live her life?

"There are no answers. There are no guarantees. We make our choice, and we live with it. We can't turn time back. We can't always chase the world. We have to find our place, and mine is somewhere in-between. And this is where you will find me."

His words were hers. She wanted to run, run for her life. She wanted to dream, but she was grounded. She made her choice to start over, and now she had to carry that burden. She couldn't walk away from that, but that didn't mean that she had to stop dreaming. She would always dream just like he would run, but did he ever make it? Would she?

"Woodbridge."

This was her stop. She held the book to her chest. Her eyes drifted over the passengers, who seemed content living their lives, but she was sure that the pages to their story were torn and jagged. Nobody lived a perfect life. We were all trying to escape. We were all trying to run to somewhere, but we remained standing still. She was standing still, and he was running. He was no longer running to the life that waited for him. He was running toward her, and she welcomed him in with open arms, holding his heart in her hands.