a life where she’d suffered a herniated disc and broken her ribs in a car accident.
There had, in short, been a lot of lives. And among those lives she had laughed and cried and felt calm and terrified and everything in between.
And between these lives she always saw Mrs Elm in the library.
And at first it seemed that the more lives she experienced, the fewer problems there seemed to be with the transfer.
The library never felt like it was on the brink of crumbling or falling apart or at risk of disappearing completely.
The lights didn’t even flicker through many of the changeovers.
It was as though she had reached some state of acceptance about life – that if there was a bad experience, there wouldn’t only be bad experiences.
She realised that she hadn’t tried to end her life because she was miserable,
but because she had managed to convince herself that there was no way out of her misery.
That, she supposed, was the basis of depression as well as the difference between fear and despair.
Fear was when you wandered into a cellar and worried that the door would close shut. Despair was when the door closed and locked behind you.
But with every life she saw that metaphorical door widen a little further as she grew better at using her imagination.
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