Clint smiled, then turned around the chart he had been drawing and redrawing. The word Kribright was at the centre of the page with several lines drawn off of it to form several new derivatives. Then, on the other half of the page was the term Mermaid. Sirens, harpies, brownies, and sprites followed. Tyler watched as sirens and sprites soon formed into something similar to kribright on the page after many, many transitions.

“There is never a quick and easy swap,” Clint explained. “Translating is always a creative process, where I’m basically rewriting the poem to make sense for our language, using the idioms and expressions these people used. It’s harder this way, rather than dumping it into a translation bot online, but this is what I’m paid for.”

“To write poetry?”

“To rewrite poetry, translate it from one experience to the next. All words have history, you know? Even his library -- the Tristero. That sounds like its French word triste, meaning sadness, but it’s also Welsh for noise and clatter. Like these books are full of sound, rather than sadness, when left alone.”

“I think I like the second meaning more,” Tyler said. Her supervisor at work, Crispin, had always joked about this being The Sad Library. She thought he had meant the students and professors who wandered the stacks, but now she saw the other meaning.

“Yeah, me too,” Clint said, before his cheeks were tinged with red. “And then there’s your name.”

“My name?” She smiled. “Tell me more.”

“Years ago, it used to be a boy’s name meaning door keeper. But time changes the meaning of names as much as words. Culture always deviates towards women taking men’s names, and not the other way around. In a way, it shows how being a man is getting harder and harder to define by one word alone.”

“You’re doing well,” she said, then realized how it sounded out of her mouth. Black and blue, a bruise. When he looked away she wondered if she had completely broken the conversation in two, and it was no longer like the symmetry in her mind.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything by that. Sometimes --”

“No, it’s fine. I think I’m just used to talking about poems, not about me. Even all the authors are lost.”

“You seem interesting, though.”

“I’m not an author. I’m an archivist.”

“That’s still something,” she said. “It has to be.”

He glanced up at her, his dark brows knitted suspiciously. She could see a faint scar under his lip from where a piercing had been, or perhaps an augmented reality placement. He opened his mouth, but didn’t get to say anything aloud before the intercom crackled in purple.

“Hello, Patrons. The Tristero Library will be closing in another fifteen minutes. Please bring all items you are not done with to the front, where we will keep them on reserve for you until tomorrow morning. Thank you.”

From the corner of her eye, Tyler saw Crispin wander out from the desk, in search of her. “I have to go.”

“Oh, of course. I understand.” Clint smiled and pulled his notebook back. “Thanks, by the way. For the paper.”

“Anytime.” She lingered, even as Crispin wandered the aisle closer to her. Clint picked up his bag, leaving the top undone so the security guards at the front could make sure he wasn’t taking anything out. They protected the libraries better than the banks now, Tyler knew. At the end of the day, all the books were gathered and locked up tightly. As much of a hassle it was, she could understand a little better now why it was so important.

When Tyler was a girl, she thought the reason people locked the books up at night was because the letters could walk off the page. That the letters had their own life. When she told her grandmother this, her grandmother had told her the story of The Tower of Babel.

“The word fell at the same time the world fell. When we get too proud of our progress, someone needs to remind us to stop and listen to one another,” she had said, rocking in her chair. “It’s why people speak different languages. It’s why we need translation. The Tower of Babel falling was a punishment, but it’s a good thing, really.”

“Why?”

“Because unity is boring. I like the difference, even if it takes a while to understand.”

“But what if you can’t find yourself?” Tyler asked. “If everyone can’t understand each other, how can you know your own name?”

“You think a lot, Ty.”