Mr. James
In the heart of a town too small to host a Starbucks, there's a brick building with sun-faded lettering: Elmwood Public Library. Inside, among the stacks of novels and the faint smell of old paper, works a man named Mr. James.
He doesn’t say much. Never has. But people talk to him anyway.
Children wave as they bustle into the story corner, some too shy to say hello. Mr. James always smiles. There’s something in his eyes. A knowing of things, a calmness which many parents seem to find comfort in. A kindness too. He’s not slow, but he doesn’t rush either. The intentionality of his tasks alone communicates a pleasantness.
Grandparents come in on quiet Tuesday mornings, flipping through reference books older than some of the town’s houses. They ask about ship manifests, soil records, family trees. Mr. James doesn’t pretend to know everything, but he knows where to find information. And he always finds it.
Teenagers drag in laptops and legal pads, wrestling with term papers and thesis deadlines. He doesn’t hover. He just appears when needed with the perfect article from the archives, or a surprisingly enjoyable coffee from the machine that rattles away behind him.
He writes too. Late at night, long after the lights flicker off upstairs. Not for recognition. Not for likes. Just because words matter to him. Ideas matter to him. People matter to him.
He’s never pitched synergy to a boardroom. He’s never raised capital or gone viral or colour-coded a KPI spreadsheet. Instead, his life touches more people in more lasting ways than a thousand LinkedIn “thought leaders” ever could.
He’s the reason a young mother feels welcome in town. He’s the reason a grieving widower finds purpose indexing war medals. He’s the reason a teenager, failing chemistry but dreaming in paragraphs, believes their voice matters.
No one ever asks Mr. James for his metrics.
But every morning someone opens the door and says,
“Morning, Mr. James. How’s that book coming along?”
And he just smiles, his eyes warm and quiet, much like his world around him.
Whispers through the shelves,
kindness in a glance, not words.
Books breathe, and he hears.