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When a 23-year-old librarian in Tbilisi learns her beloved riverside library faces closure for redevelopment, she rallies neighbors, uncovers a hidden century-old mural, and faces a deadline-bound project manager to save the room that holds their stories.
At eight the old library by the river breathed itself awake. Nino turned the heavy key and felt the brass give a little, as if the door were stretching after a night of rain. The smell came first: lemons from last night’s mop water, dust warmed by the morning sun, a trace of ink. She flicked a switch. Bulbs stuttered on one by one over rows of mismatched tables. The windows faced a narrow street where tangerine sellers were already arguing about prices. Above their heads a trolleybus groaned and rolled downhill toward the bridge.
Nino set the kettle on and rubbed the chill from her fingers. She was twenty‑three, hair tied in a knot that never held for long, sleeves rolled over faded elbow patches. Her name tag had lost an i, so it read “Nno.” It made the children laugh. She liked that. She straightened a stack of dog‑eared readers, checked the box of colored pencils, and put a bowl of mandarins by the notice board. A stray cat slid between her ankles with a sound like paper tearing.
“Good morning,” Saba said, half out of breath as he burst in. He was fourteen, a volunteer who did more juggling than shelving. “I brought the flyers you asked for. They’re a bit crooked.”
“Crooked is honest,” Nino said. She took the warm stack and the uneven edges pricked her palm. “Thank you. Can you set the little chairs? The frogs will be here soon.”
The frogs were the preschoolers from the yard two buildings over. They wore green caps and learned to whisper like they never would again. Nino loved the hush that fell when they gathered, the way their parents’ faces softened when they sat on the floor, knees cracking, to hear a story about a crow who stole a silver spoon.
By nine, the bell on the door had rung fifteen times. An old man in a gray coat shook out a chess board near the window. Two seamstresses carried in a roll of fabric to use the big table for cutting. The sunlight found the places where the paint had peeled and made them look like islands on a blue sea. From the courtyard came the slap of wet laundry, a radio singing about a swan, and a smell of yeast from Lasha’s bakery on the corner.
“Tea,” Nino announced, and the morning rolled on.