The Last Reader
In the year 2157, books had vanished.
They called it the Age of Stream — a time when every thought, story, and emotion could be downloaded straight into the brain. No need for reading. No paper. No pages. No pause.
But in a quiet corner of the old world, nestled between the ruins of shattered towers, lived an old man named Eliot. He wasn’t famous. He wasn’t wired. But he had something no one else did — a library.
It was hidden beneath the broken floor of an abandoned school. Dust-covered shelves stretched like secret arms, cradling ancient stories in silence. Paper crackled like autumn leaves, and ink still whispered truths.
Eliot came every morning, slowly descending the creaking steps with his lantern and worn boots. He read aloud. Not for anyone to hear, but because the words deserved to live.
One morning, as he read The Little Prince for the hundredth time, he heard footsteps above.
People never came here.
He froze.
A faint knock on the trapdoor echoed through the silence.
Cautiously, Eliot opened it.
A girl — no older than twelve — stood with wide eyes and a battered satchel.
"You read?" she asked.
"Yes," Eliot replied softly. "Do you?"
She shook her head. “I’ve never seen a book. They said they were dangerous.”
Eliot smiled. “Some of them are. The best ones always are.”
She stepped inside, eyes lighting up as if she'd entered a dream. Her fingers brushed the spines like they were made of magic.
"Can you teach me?" she whispered.
He handed her a thin book. Charlotte’s Web. Her lips moved clumsily with the words. She stumbled, paused, tried again.
And Eliot listened.
Day after day, she returned.
They read. They laughed. Sometimes, they cried. She asked questions the streamers never asked. She wondered about characters, feelings, choices. She imagined.
News of the girl spread. Others came—secretly at first. Children, teens, even grown-ups. Curious. Hungry for more than speed and simulation.
Eliot’s hidden library became a sanctuary. Stories lived again. Slowly, pages turned across generations who had never known silence.
But nothing lasts forever.
One evening, a group of Enforcers arrived. Cloaked in chrome, eyes cold with circuits, they demanded Eliot surrender the books. “Data is direct. Efficient. Books are obsolete.”
Eliot stood firm. Behind him stood the girl, now older, holding a book close to her heart.
He looked at the officer and said, “Then why are you still afraid of them?”
Silence.
Then, the Enforcers left.
That night, the girl sat beside Eliot. “Will they come back?”
He nodded. “Probably.”
“What do we do?”
He handed her a small notebook and pen.
“You write.”
She smiled, tearfully. “What should I write?”
“Start with this: Once upon a time, there was a world that forgot how to dream.”
And so she did.
