(I don't remember what website I got this prompt from)
The little room in back where they let you stash other peoples’ horrid children.
The ghostly procession of Civil War soldiers that rides through every public library east of the Mississippi every Wednesday at 2 a.m.
They let me sleep there.
They way the poetry books swoon out of the cases if they think you might pick them up and read them.
The basement. If you joined Friends of the Library you might know.
An adult-sized ball pit helps.