Shanmathi, one of our gifted writers, wrote a sublime passage inspired by the novel.

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The constant fear was like a wildfire.

It swelled up and started burning away the green at an unstoppable pace when a book was in sight, slowly calming down into a low crackling as the book was once again safe and hidden. The fear would claw at her belly and mind, tearing away her wisdom and calm. It would drive Agatha mad, her mind sometimes losing it. The fear burnt away her knowledge, singeing the memories of her wonderful past. It burnt through her personality, creating a deep hole in her chest.

That afternoon, in her apartment room with bright screens that blocked all the walls (except for the door) and a featureless metal couch, Agatha crouched on the floor with fear bubbling inside of her. But there was something unusual. Unlike the rest of the city, Agatha had covered the exploding TV screens with robes and turned off all the harsh, bright and cold lights for her liking. One singular candle made a pool of flickering light around where Agatha crouched. Her greying hair was tied into a tight bun, perfectly round spectacles on the edge of her sharp nose. Her face, lit by the soft candlelight, was covered in wrinkles of ageing, her thin lips glued downwards as if never knowing there was something called a smile. Agatha’s face was covered in a mask, a thin mask that no one would notice unless they looked very closely. The mask covered her once cheerful self, the one when she was a young librarian. The fear had reshaped her face into an unkind and rough thing, making her look intimidating especially in the dancing candlelight.

With trembling hands, Agatha opened a nook in the floor that was barely in sight. Out of the hidden shelf wafted the scent of crisp but rotting paper. The aroma of old, fading ink and moth-bitten leather. Agatha took a deep breathe. The scent gave her a sense of calming.

But then came the fear.

The fire spread through her body going up to the tips of her head and down to her pointy toes. Beads of sweat clung onto her forehead that was creased with lines of rampant anxiety. Agatha inhaled her beloved scent, suppressing her fear into a smolder. The sweat drenched her as her long and quivering finger reached the book on top of the tiny pile- it only consisted of four books, probably the last in the world.

Agatha clung the book to her chest with unbelievable caution, as if it was a million-dollar, fragile diamond. With the candle in her other hand, Agatha treaded across her tiled floor towards a crumbling, wooden desk that was hiding in a corner of darkness. Agatha sat on the chair that accompanied the desk and carefully placed the book on the face of the desk. In fading ink, it read “‘Murder on the Orient Express’ ‘By Agatha Christie'”. Agatha couldn’t breathe. This-this was the last novel ever to survive that was written by her favorite author, the one she was named after.

Agatha ever so gently opened the book. Tears threatened to fall out of her eyes. The fear turned into anger. Anger at the world for abandoning these precious treasures and turning to droning metal, lifeless robots that weren’t any excitement. Anger at the world for burning books like-

THUD. THUD. THUD.

Agatha’s brain froze. For a few seconds it stopped completely.

Firemen! The firemen are coming. Immediataley Agatha jumped up, with the precious book in hand. She opened her secret shelf and placed the book down. Then she closed it. She went around her place dragging the robes of the TV screens and shoving them underneath the couch. She turned on her harsh and cold lights, pretending to stare at one of the Tv screens that was now blasting a add about some kind of new speakers. Her room filled with technology.

All this time Agatha pondered over how she’d risked her life to save those few books that had been trapped in her library’s fire. Now they were going to burn to ashes just like the old library. But there wasn’t any more time to think.

The heavy steps of boots got louder. And then the door slowly creaked open. . .