The boy, Eli, was twelve when his family crossed the Atlantic and planted roots in a small Ohio town. America smelled of cut grass and gasoline; it sounded like cicadas and distant freight trains. It was not home, but it promised to become one. He found it in the public library’s basement, a forgotten room of dusty microfilm readers and yellowed newspapers. The librarian, Mrs. Delgado, let him stay after closing. The hum of the machines became his lullaby. Eli noticed how people lingered when he spun stories about the headlines. He started projecting old newsreels onto the wall, narrating in a voice older than his years. Kids from school drifted in. The basement became the place to be on Friday nights. Work became his home away from home, because he thought his parenys were in debt, the library’s overdue bills. Eli realized that if the room kept drawing crowds, the town might save it. The equation was simple: fill seats, fill coffers. The mayor expected a cute kid’s show. The teens expected memes. Eli expected nothing; he only wanted the room to stay open. So he owned the stage. He wore a thrift-store suit two sizes too big, called himself “The Archivist,” and promised “history you can touch.” The suit became his armor.
One night he projected a fake headline: LOCAL BOY PREDICTS FLOOD. He staged a dramatic evacuation drill. The crowd screamed, then laughed when he revealed the hoax. The library raised three hundred dollars in “emergency donations.” The next week, a real headline appeared: LIBRARY TO CLOSE. Eli’s hoax had primed the town to believe anything. He felt sick. The line between performance and lie had vanished. He couldn’t stop. He built a cardboard time machine, charged admission to “visit 1893.” Kids paid in quarters. The illusion paid the electric bill. The town whispered: What will the Archivist do when the money runs out?
He was innovative because he thought he was sure of what he was doing. Eli understood that if he kept learning, he could keep inventing. He read psychology books, magic manuals, anything that taught misdirection. He invented “Professor Chronos,” a bearded puppet who “predicted” donations. The puppet took credit for every success, every failure. Eli stayed invisible. The library survived on grants. Eli forged a letter from a fake historical society promising matching funds. The town council, desperate to look cultured, doubled their pledge. He mimicked legitimacy: letterhead, wax seals, a post-office box. The illusion grew teeth. Eli told himself it was for the greater good. The basement stayed open. Kids had a refuge. He was a hero, right? But the suit no longer fit. He caught his reflection—eyes too old, smile too practiced. He hated the puppet’s voice coming from his own mouth. D.N.X was the queen. She saw the books he checked out, the late nights, the tremor in his hands. She never asked questions, only left sandwiches. The grant arrived. The library was saved. The town threw a parade. Eli rode in the back of a convertible, waving like a politician. Old Mr. Hargrove, the council treasurer, had grumbled from the start. “Kids and their stunts,” he muttered. He alone smelled fraud.
Eli invited Hargrove to the basement for a “private tour.” He showed the man a ledger—fake numbers, real ink. Hargrove’s eyes widened at the “matching funds.” Eli recorded the conversation on a hidden phone. Blackmail dressed as transparency. When Hargrove tried to expose the forgery, Eli played the tape: the treasurer bragging about “creative accounting” to impress a lady friend. The town laughed. Hargrove retired in shame. Eli upgraded the cardboard time machine to a walk-in booth with smoke and mirrors. Tickets sold out. But the well was dry. The illusions repeated. The crowd thinned. Kids wanted new tricks; Eli had none. He pivoted. The basement became a makerspace: 3D printers, coding laptops, mural walls. No more puppets. Real tools, real skills. Everyone welcome—rich, poor, neurodivergent, shy. The room filled again, louder than ever. The library thrived. D.N.X smiled for the first time in years. Eli’s parents stopped fighting about money. The goal—home away from home—was achieved, but the cost lingered. Late at night, Eli sat alone among the humming printers. The suit hung in the closet, moth-eaten. He had saved the place he loved by becoming someone he didn’t recognize. The pain was real, and it had his face. PARANOIA WAS DEPRESSION. DEPRESSION WAS LIVING IN THE PAST BY ONLY LIVING IN THE PRESENT.