‘Mourgadze’ by Cameron MacDonald

In my two years working at the sprawling university library, I learned four truths. The first is that books smell the way they do because of mould, rot, and worms, not because they hold ancient wisdom. The second is that university students can sleep absolutely anywhere. The third, in the same vein, is that university students can hold amorous congress absolutely anywhere. The fourth is that, despite the beleaguered firefly of intelligence buzzing around the hollows of their skulls, university students have an unparalleled penchant for leaving their things behind. On the carpet, on the shelves between books, on the chairs, on the tables, hanging from lamps, and even — just once — on the back of a toilet. Their favourite spots, though, were the numerous study holes scattered throughout the library, mostly on the upper floors. They were soundproof rooms tucked into the darkest corners of the building with lockable doors and no windows. The university official who greenlighted this particular architectural feature, given truths two and three, must have been a veritable mastermind.

As the youngest employee, and, incidentally, the only one capable of navigating the upper floors without need of a stair lift, it was my job to scour the library at the end of each night with an empty cardboard box, two latex gloves, and a small yellow bin meant for biohazardous waste. 

It became a game. How many calculators richer would I be? How many pens could we add to the pen drawer? How many rabbits could I find trying to spend the night in the reading holes? How many watches could I keep in the lost and found for six weeks before my morals took a sabbatical and I sold them online? 

This evening, though, I made an unusual find.

It had been a slow night of treasure-hunting: two pens, one of them chewed, many pieces of scrap paper, several coffee cups in varying stages of emptiness, and a three-ring binder with only two rings. All the typical nooks and crannies had been empty, which I attributed to my fastidious nightly cleaning and the thinly veiled aggression I hurled at anyone who seemed primed to set up camp or to litter. I knocked on the door to the last reading hole on the third floor and popped in the master key without waiting for a reply. The door came open without a creak or a groan and I prepared myself for all manner of ghastly prizes: a spilled spice latte, a melted chocolate bar, a spent sausage wrapper from a romantic evening.

Instead, what I found was a small wooden cube on the floor beneath the table, leaning crookedly against one leg of a chair.