'Whatever Happened to George?'

'It is said that man's greatest treasure lies buried beneath his greatest fear. But who has the strength to look?'

An air of musky scent filled the vast recesses of the Library, a scent that seemed to hang everywhere; along the corridors, across the perfectly bound volumes neatly stacked upon the dark wooden shelves, down to the polished lattice of oaken flooring, stretching outwards and beyond where distance could not be recognised by human eyes. Drifting softly through the silence of the great hall, it lingered pleasantly around the perfectly arranged furniture of rosewood and mahogany, melting into the natural light that binds the Library to a place of serenity, a place of peace and comfort, knowledge and truth. Here, a mind could relax within a shelter where time had stopped; a retreat where silence was enough for everything the senses wanted to know.
George sat upright in the deeply upholstered crimson velvet chair, gazing incredulously across the vast, endless area of books. Row upon row, shelf upon shelf, higher and higher to a point of unrecognizable blur; longer and longer, to disappear over the horizon of his sight.
He inhaled deeply. Was it vanilla or jasmine, rose petal or gardenia? For a moment, his sense told him it was his mother's perfume. He remembered coming home from school and opening the door, her scent waiting to welcome him. Then the aroma changed to chestnuts roasting sweetly by the fire, baking endlessly in the ashes and glowing embers of Christmas Eve. An excitement filled his heart with the memories of Christmas past; roast turkey and stuffing, party hats and his father's sherry he so longed to taste.
It was all here, the smell of the garden in summertime; the lavender and mint, lilac and honeysuckle. Delicate fragrances filled his head with startling memories of distant days full of laughter and good friends, now gone their own way to experience the call of life. He could hear their voices whispering softly in the great silence. How he yearned to see their faces, touch their hands and laugh with them again.
Slowly placing his hat onto the beautifully grained table in front of him and smoothing his hands over his thinning hair, George took another deep breath, his heart pounding to the beat of his childhood years. He stared around, glancing upward again and across to the countless volumes set in flawless position on each shelf.
Where was he? What was he doing in this place of books, sweet smells and memories from his childhood? Why could he hear distant voices from the past echoing through his head, breaking the silence with their calls from yesterday? He was dreaming. In a moment he would wake up . . . . . this room had to be a dream; a library full of dreams and strange sounds. He could feel his heart pounding, his chest rising and falling to the laboured flow of his breath.
Closing his eyes again, he tried to calm down, but his thoughts now regressed back to the time when he was a young man with great expectations of life to come. He could feel, once again, the freshness of youthful enthusiasm rising inside, and his thoughts shifted to Phoebe; to the first time he knew she was the one.
He remembered touching her hand and holding her close as his heart danced, making him dizzy with desire; walking hand-in-hand across fields of wild flowers, climbing rocks and shouting from the tops of hills. He could see their wedding day, hear the vicar pronounce them man and wife, taste the wine and hear the loving words spoken by friends and family. It was everything he had ever wanted; it was for ever . . . . . it was love.
George blinked open his eyes and shook his head, bringing his focus back into the Library, a sense of disbelief overwhelming him. All these experiences happened years ago . . . . . but here, he could feel them as if they were happening now, within this room of books. He wiped at his eyes and blinked again, desperately trying to make sense of it all . . . . . and then, with abrupt realisation, he remembered the accident. He knew the car had hit him . . . . . but how could this be? Surely it was a dream.
He checked his body and legs, they were fine . . . . he could move . . . . he had no pain . . . . it must have been a dream. But he was here, this wasn't home and certainly wasn't a hospital. Again, he clearly recalled the collision . . . . and then the darkness.
He was dead. No two ways about it, George was dead.
But no . . . . . he was alive. His eyes told him he was alive. Every sense told him he was very much alive. He slowly gazed around the Library, confusion consuming his every thought.
It was only this morning he had set off to the meeting. This morning he and Phoebe had been together, talking, getting on with life. Only last night they were making plans, so easy with each other, so intense with their grumblings.
George slumped back into the chair as his memories washed over him . . . . . . . .