I still remember the flames. The tongues of Hell. The fire that engulfed the lives of so many of my friends that kept me company on many a lonesome day as I flicked through their lives, diving into fantastical thrilling adventures from the comfort of the library floor. I remember their burning flesh, the stench of papyrus cindering black. It is now only in my memories that they live on; their worlds having nought but been reduced to ash. From imagination to life. From dust to ashes.

The sun beats down on us, the sweat pouring off of our bodies. It is 48 BCE and the tides are black, the river is wild and the ground is soaked red. It was a defeat yet they call it 'strategic manipulation' but it's not like my opinion would count anyway - it's simply way above a labourers pay grade. All I'm good for is lumbering stones about, heaving, heavy lifting, pulling and pushing. All day, everyday. It wasn't a profession I wanted. I didn't choose the labour life - the labour life chose me.

I could count myself lucky though, at least I wasn't born unto a slave or even worse - a harlot. My days are spent toning my muscles but my nights are spent training my brain. Well, that was until my ticket to a better life was lost to the blaze. Lost alongside the thousands of imaginations and universes trapped inside the pages of what should have been immortal.

As an educated person or labourer knows; stone doesn't burn too well so when we were called to construct repairs on the Library of Alexandria, most of us were perplexed. Most of us. The ones who couldn't see the damage. The ones who did not stay up all night, haunted by the flames. The ones who could not see the charred mass for what it truly was. The ones who didn't see the ghost of a shell.

The flames had licked the pillars clean, only leaving behind piles of ashes and dust. With a few swipes of the hand, it could all easily come clean, the stain gone but not forgotten.

'It is an honour' They said, to which it truly is. Never in my wildest dreams had I dreamt that one day I could impact something that had impacted so many others but replacing that which has crumbled causes more than just sweat to seep from my body under the unforgiving heat - a memoir of the past relic.

Each stone upon stone rennovatest the wonder to it's former glory and I don't mind the yells and the whips. Each day, each struggle brings us closer to restoration. The blood slowly dries out, the rivers calm and the sea dilutes blue. Everything slowly returns back to normal but my memories don't fade.

Soon the library will appear as though it never suffered - never screamed with the souls of it's mortal pages. But it's still empty. Robbed of the written word contained within.