#gilbert lang

In another life, Gilbert might not have loved books.

In another life, one where he didn’t spend so much of his time in his own bed or in and out of hospitals, he might have had different interests.  Sports, for example.  They seem dreadfully boring to him, but that might just be because he’s never been able to play, only to watch.  If he’d had a life where his body worked as it was supposed to, where books weren’t his constant companion by necessity, maybe he wouldn’t have cared so much for them.

That strikes him as a more depressing thought than being bedridden in the first place.

Books are glorious things.  Sports are all well and good, and Gilbert’s turned his hand to crafts and other sedentary hobbies now and then, but he would challenge anyone to find the depth of emotion contained within books in any other subject.  The stories contained within books are far more than messages - they impress upon the reader the feelings of the characters, the feelings of the author long after they have passed on.  No other hobby leaves such an imprint.

Well, except art.  But paint fumes are terrible for Gilbert’s health, and his hands shake too much to wield ink.  So books it is.

If Gilbert had another life, one where he wasn’t confined to this bed, he would have liked to open a library.  He would personally select the finest books available - not just the popular ones, but true gems.  He would stock books that made his readers laugh, that made them cry, that made them tremble with excitement, and most of all, that made them fall in love with what they read.

But that’s wishful thinking, really.  He’s grateful for what he has in this life, since he won’t get any other.  Besides, his loved ones leave him enough books to read that he has something of a miniature library.  Isn’t that enough?

(It’s not, but he would never say it.)

Gilbert stares down at his hands.

His skin was even paler than this, he’s sure.  His hair wasn’t this long, though he always wished he could grow it long and beautiful and not falling out in clumps.  This name feels right, this body feels right, but there are little bits and pieces that are wrong.

“Aaah, I see you’ve become aware.”  Michibiki is smiling, as per usual, but it’s a gentler smile than normal.  “As you’ve now realized, you’re dead.  In fact, so is everyone in Farethere City.  Normally, people who realize their circumstances are put on the Path to Rebirth… but I don’t recommend it.  Few people ever manage to reach the end and reincarnate as humans.  Instead, won’t you stay here?”

Gilbert clears his throat and feels no need to start coughing.  “I have one question, or perhaps two.”

“Yees?” says Michibiki.

“Now that I remember everything, why don’t I feel sick?” Gilbert asks.

“Oh, that.  Well, it’s not like the dead can’t be sick, or we wouldn’t have a doctor around.  But you can’t do what your heart wants most if you’re bedridden, can you?  So I took the liberty of making a few changes.”  Michibiki shrugs his shoulders.  “I can change you back to how you were if you want-”

“No!” Gilbert says, and flushes when he realizes how desperate that sounded.  “I mean - err - no, please, this is fine.  I should thank you, rather.  Being here with my friends, and running this library… it’s everything I’ve always wanted.  ...Can I really stay here, truly?”

“Of course.  We’d be happy to have you, Gilbert.”  Michibiki smiles wider, which turns into a bewildered expression when Gilbert throws his arms around his shoulders.  “Erm - so that’s a yes?”

“Yes, a thousand times yes, mon ami!”

Michibiki pats his back as he sniffles.  “It wouldn’t be the same city without you.  Welcome to Farethere - oh.”