Fiction: A man revives an old library. Then, one night, he is stabbed to death. Who did it? Why?

Now he will live like a ghost in the library. He will wander between the book racks. He will thicken on the floor like layers of dust. He will lie on the grimy skylights like sunlight. He will stick to the old curtains like dirt. Why be sad? Whatever happened was fine. I will never step inside that place as long as I live. What if the wretch, even now, clings to my feet like dust? Those stairs, those corridors, that balcony … How can I pluck them out of my mind, how can I wipe those books away from my memories! Anyway, now bats will make their home among those books.

Whatever happened was fine. Absolutely fine. It wasn’t possible for anything else to have happened. Not in the slightest. It’s not that I’m particularly delighted at everything that happened – no, no, I’m not. Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t say that I am happy with everything that transpired. I really want to be happy about everything that happened. To laugh and keep laughing. To go in every direction, to cover each direction, every tiny particle, with my laughter. I want to hug everyone I meet. To start...

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