Lantern Library

The Lantern Library by Aimee Duong, YWA member 2026

As the heels of the young writer’s shoes click on stone pavement, crushing the dried leaves that are scattered beneath their feet, the perfume from the vividly golden marigolds lingers in their nose, luring them into the gates, while the flickering fireflies swarm around.

Once they venture through the stone archway of the Lantern Library, a profound, comforting silence washes over them, carrying with it a deep, immediate sense of comfort that feels like a warm embrace. Surrounding the writer is a bibliotheca, an archive that stores stories from authors of all backgrounds. Ranging from personal narratives to fantasy fiction, there is a story for everyone.

The library serves as a sacred place to share and read timeless stories preserved on its shelves, fostering a deep sense of community. In the quiet corner, a dedicated shelf holds an assortment of pencils and paper for any scholar who needs to share thoughts that they have been musing on. If anything is troubling them, they are free to plop themselves onto a cozy beanbag or sit alongside friends on the window seat and begin dumping thoughts to their heart’s content. The whiteboard in the back serves as a safe, anonymous space for students to share their personal struggles, and, if they are comfortable enough, they can choose to include their name to help others find people who resonate with them.

And as it gets gloomy later in the day, the open lanterns overhead glow with a soft, ethereal light; powered by fireflies roaming the area, illuminating the winding path, making sure that the library is never too dim. The atmosphere is thick with the legacy of those who have passed through; even for the students who no longer inhabit IK2W, their light still brilliantly shines through. They still float around every corner of the library, making their presence remain as a palpable force even when they are physically absent—leaving an indelible, lasting mark on IK2W that ensures they are never truly forgotten.

Nestled between bookshelves are cushioned pillows, Flicker’s home. Usually, when it is not roaming around the forest or lighting up a spark for incoming writers, the young writers can find it leisurely napping or launching itself onto people’s laps like an overexcited kitten. This is the one time they will find their fingers carding through its soft fur, which goes from a deep orange to flickering yellow and white, like the sparking embers of a fire.

Looking through the magnificent stained glass window, the sweeping branches of the ancient Mabel tree paint a picturesque backdrop against the twilight sky. Even from a distance, the flickering lights of fireflies cascade down the sky like constellations as the sun sets on the horizon.