All the other areas of the shelves around her had the books tightly pressed side-by-side,
but here, lying flat on the thin, white shelf, there was only one book.
And this book wasn’t green like the others. It was grey. As grey as the stone of the front of the building when she had seen it through the mist.
Mrs Elm took the book from the shelf and handed it to Nora.
She had a slight look of anticipatory pride, as if she’d handed her a Christmas present.
It had seemed light when Mrs Elm was holding it, but it was far heavier than it looked.
Nora went to open it. Mrs Elm shook her head. ‘You always have to wait for my say-so.’
‘Why?’ ‘Every book in here, every book in this entire library – except one – is a version of your life.
This library is yours. It is here for you. You see, everyone’s lives could have ended up an infinite number of ways.
These books on the shelves are your life, all starting from the same point in time.
Right now. Midnight. Tuesday the twenty-eighth of April.
But these midnight possibilities aren’t the same. Some are similar, some are very different.’
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