The Mother Library

There exists a place where every book dwells, a place beyond time and space, just past the last shelf in every library. The doors there aren’t hard to find, but they are hard to open. If you can make it through the portal, though, you will find the mother library, the greatest and the first, the seed from which all others sprout. No one knows what the mother library looks like from the outside since the doors lead only back to the times and places patrons have come from, but within the hallowed halls of the mother library are shelves as far as the eye can see, bearing every manner of written word since time immemorial. On the farthest shelves lay stones with pictures painted on, then clay with simple carvings. There are racks of scrolls and shelves of leather-bound tomes, and now server racks replete with data.
No one knows who the woman is who runs the mother library, or how long she’s been there. Some of the histories in the mother library reference her, though the authors had no idea where they were. But every time someone falls through the stacks to the mother library, she is there to guide them. The descriptions of her never change, no matter how much time passes, no matter where the library’s patrons come from.


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