A Lost Family’s Library

Somewhere in the New England states, cities begin to fade away. Buildings turn to farmland, paved streets to cobble-stoned roads, traffic lights to hemlock trees. Lives, jobs, shopping malls become exceedingly sparse. Areas of land form small, quaint towns where wild phoebes sing and everyone knows everyone; life is quiet, simple, pleasant. And, nestled in one of these towns—Manchester—there is a small brick building, home to an assortment of aging books. This building is called The Manchester Library—though it’s more than just a library.

In 1859, the Wellsworths bought a small home in the town of Manchester, New Hampshire. The home itself was one story; some of the walls, along with the chimney, consisted of red brick; the rest of walls—and trimmings—were made from wood, painted white; the roof shingles were the typical grey color, and the surrounding land bore sweet grass and hemlock trees. For years the Wellsworths remained there, the husband working for a banker named Thomas Preston. The wife tried to keep their home in proper order, but she had a counter-intuitive hoarding problem. She loved old things: gold-framed, chipping oil paintings of long gone faces, creaky wooden chairs with careful engravings, dusty globes that barely spun anymore, worn books with red and brown covers, anything coated in dust. Mr. and Mrs. Wellsworth went on to have three children, the oldest of which was Henry, a genius from birth; then there was Frankie, who was incredibly unexceptional; and Hetty, a smart girl of clueless nature.

In the mornings, Henry, Frankie, and Hetty would walk to the schoolhouse, accompanied by Evie and Edgar Harding. The Hardings were a family of questionable intellect, located down the street from the Wellsworths; Edgar was the same age as Frankie, while Evie was a year older. The walk to school was approximately fifteen minutes, giving the children sufficient time to bond. Frankie and Edgar did the majority of the talking, and were fast friends. Evie and Hetty were somewhat social, while Henry refrained from engaging with the others. The group was usually accompanied by an orange stray cat, whom they called Ginger.

In the fall of 1878, Henry went off to Dartmouth, leaving Frankie with the role of eldest child. Frankie did not fill it well, continuously disappointing his parents with his low academic performance—he would have been the dumbest in his class if it weren’t for Edgar. But, excluding Frankie’s tendency to underachieve, the Wellsworth family was in a good state: Mr. Wellsworth had received a satisfactory raise, and Mrs. Wellsworth took advantage of this new income, splurging on old books and worn furniture. Their children still enjoyed commutes with the Harding kids—and Ginger, of course. The sweet grass and hemlock trees lived on. Indeed, things were good.

Then winter came, bringing illness with it—pneumonia, possibly. By February, Mr. and Mrs. Wellsworth were no longer living. In the wake of their deaths, Frankie ran away, leaving fifteen-year-old Hetty to fend for herself. 

In 1880, Edgar decided it was time for him to get married. Hetty was the most convenient option, so he proposed to her. He claimed to have a marvelous idea for a paper business, which would provide them with ample money for the rest of their lives. Hetty agreed to the marriage, and, due to clueless desperation, believed it would solve all of her problems. It didn’t, of course: Edgar’s “marvelous” idea failed, leaving them in sizable debt. Hetty realized that she hadn’t seen Ginger in a long time.

Over the next several years, Edgar’s debt grew exceedingly larger—before he knew it, he owed a hundred grand to the Preston Bank. Edgar’s parents eventually passed away, but they left the majority of their inheritance to Evie and her husband Mr. Moore. Edgar and Hetty were destitute, with nothing but the small Wellsworth house, still cluttered with the dusty belongings of the late Mrs. Wellsworth. In 1887, the elderly Thomas Preston approached their house. He knocked on the creaky door, but received no answer. He began to yell for Edgar Harding, demanding he pay his debts to the bank. Still no response. Preston had the police bust the door open, and found only worn books and furniture. Edgar and Hetty were nowhere to be found.

In the spring of 1895, Henry Wellsworth returned to Mansfield wearing a grey pressed suit, now a wealthy lawyer. No one had ever found Edgar or Hetty, and Frankie had supposedly joined a traveling circus. Henry sat down in the sweet grass of his childhood home, now just a lonely box of brick and wood. After a few moments of silent thought, he walked inside - the door had never been fixed. His mother’s belongings remained; red and brown books, stagnant globes globes, creaky chairs, all covered in dust. Regardless, the house was empty; it lacked any life. Henry had never been the sentimental type, but he began to cry. This house was all that was left of his family, and he could not let it die. He suddenly heard a soft purring, and turned to see the beloved Ginger crawling out from under a chair. Henry picked up the feline, and began petting its orange, stripey fur. That was when he decided to turn the abandoned home into a library, where it would live on for centuries. Never again would it lay empty.

In the summer of 2024, I walked into Henry’s former home. It was now the Manchester Public Library, and life had returned to it; children played, librarians sorted through the shelves, town residents sat on the dusty furniture, discussing quotidian matters. Hemlock trees remained in all their glory. My family had rented out a nearby homestead, and I was in search of a summer job. I went to the head librarian’s creaky wooden desk, and introduced myself. Her name was Beth Harding, and she needed help hosting weekly story-times for young families. So I began to help her; every Monday I would come in and read to the local children. I got to know them all very well, especially the three year old Daisy Moore and the playful Preston twins. Before I knew it, I was immersed in the world of these families, in the world of sweet grass and hemlock trees and creaky wood and rumors of the tragic Wellsworths.