Afilmywa

A child in the park drew it in the dirt with a stick. When I asked what it meant, she put a finger to her lips and ran away.

Her breaking point came on a Sunday. She was reshelving returns in the library’s forgotten sub-basement, a section so old the Dewey decimals had faded to ghosts. She pulled a thin, leather-bound volume with no title on the spine. afilmywa

The crowd echoed, a dull wave of sound.