Nana arrived at her grandmother’s village just as summer vacation had begun.
Because of her parents’ work she was sent there each year—a place surrounded by mountains, rice paddies, and nothing but quiet. It always seemed boring. But this year was different.
“Nana‑ya, don’t go near that lake at night. They say you’ll be drawn into the ‘Library at the Bottom of the Lake,’ since olden times.”
Dinner finished, her grandmother’s words drifted into the air, and Nana’s ears pricked.
“Library at the bottom of the lake?”
“Yes. Long ago, this village had a grand library. But when the flood came and the village drowned, the library sank too. They say, at night it appears under the water.”
Nana’s eyes lit up.
“Can we go look?”
“Don’t be silly. They say forgotten books there steal people’s memories.”
Still… that night, Nana slipped out with a flashlight in hand.
Under the moonlight the lake lay still. No breeze. No rustling leaves. Just a mirror of water.
And then Nana looked—
Below the surface faint outlines glowed.
A square tower. Columns lined in rows. A great double door. There it was: a library.
At that moment, the water’s surface lit up and a figure emerged—
A girl hovering like a spirit with translucent blue hair and glittering eyes. Nana stepped back.
“Don’t be afraid. I am the lake’s spirit. I want to entrust you with a story.”
“…Why me?”
“You nearly lost your story. That spark inside you—‘to know’ and ‘to share’. That’s why the lake called you.”
She reached out her hand. When Nana touched it, the water pooled at her feet and the scene shifted.
When she opened her eyes, she was inside the library beneath the lake.
Bookshelves taller than she was. Lantern‑like lights float softly and spines open themselves. Forgotten tales slept there, never read.
Nana reached out and opened one book.
It was a story written by a girl who once lived in this village. Mountains, paddies, festivals, first love, parting—all the things Nana’s grandmother had told her of. The last page read:
“To whoever will one day read this story. Please carry my memories into the future.”
Tears squeezed out of Nana’s eyes.
She remembered: how she loved picture books as a child. Visiting libraries. Copying stories into notebooks. But somewhere along the way, she began to think it all meant nothing, lost among exams and choices.
The spirit softly spoke:
“If you take this book with you, you’ll lose part of your memory. But instead, the heart to write stories will return. What you choose is yours.”
Without hesitation, Nana clutched the book to her chest.
—In the next moment, she found herself standing by the lake’s shore again. A dry book in her hand.
Afterwards, she began going to the local library. Opening a notebook, she wrote in her own words—what she had seen in the lake, the story she read, the landscapes lost.
When the summer holidays ended, her grandmother asked:
“Nana‑ya, was this year boring?”
“No. I found the most important story,” Nana smiled.
The lake glowed quietly, and at night, perhaps someone else’s story turned pages beneath the water.
