Bran Edevan didn't mean to be loud. It was just that his thoughts were always too big for silence. He was the kind of man whose voice entered a room before he did—booming, musical, and full of unnecessary drama. At thirty-two, with a wide chest, tight curly hair, and arms that swayed like he was always halfway through a jazz performance, Bran could make anything sound interesting: a grocery list, a parking fine, even the act of sneezing.
Naturally, this made him a terrible librarian.
The university had hired him more for diversity points than merit, or so the whispered consensus believed. The board had wanted someone "vibrant" to revive the failing humanities section. What they got was Bran—a former drama teacher who thought every quiet space was a missed opportunity for storytelling.
He had never read the job description. That was his first mistake. The second was assuming no one would mind if he organized the literature aisle in the style of a Shakespearean monologue.
It was on a Tuesday morning, two weeks into the job, when he received his title:
"Most Likely to Forget They're in a Library."
It came via the office tablet as he was performing a one-man reenactment of Oedipus Rex to a group of yawning freshmen.
"Ha!" he barked, slapping the device onto the desk. "That's not an insult; that's a badge of honour!"
But later that day, when the Dean of Orderly Conduct called him in for "a performance review"—her tone as crisp as her straight-cut blazer—he realised the title had consequences. Complaints had been filed. Students had requested noise-cancelling headphones. One girl claimed she developed a stress twitch because Bran's voice reminded her of her alarm clock.
"I'm not trying to be disruptive," he insisted.
"No," the dean replied. "You just are."
He wanted to argue. But something about the way her eyes flicked past him, as though he were already fading, made his throat go tight. For the first time in a long time, Bran left a room in silence.
The thing was, Bran loved stories more than anything. Not just books, but the stories inside people. The ones you could hear in a person's laugh or the way they chewed their pen caps. He used to teach drama because that's where he saw life most clearly. In movement. In mistakes. In moments when people forgot themselves and said something real.
But librarianship was different. It required stillness. It required space.
He tried to change. The next week, he practiced whispering in front of a mirror until his voice cracked. He rearranged the shelves silently. He handed out bookmarks like peace treaties. He even invested in soft-soled shoes. But none of it felt like him. He didn't feel anything at all.
One night, he stayed after hours and stood in the poetry aisle, alone. He picked up a copy of Mary Oliver and read aloud quietly, almost to himself.
"Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?"
The whisper hung in the air, as if waiting for an answer. He didn't have one.
The next morning, something unexpected happened.
A student left a note at the front desk. No name. Just a folded piece of paper.
"When you read that Greek play, I felt alive for the first time since my mom died.
Please don't stop being loud.
Some of us need the noise."
Bran stood still, a note trembling in his fingers.
Later, another note came. Then another.
A girl from the music department asked if he'd perform sonnets to help her with stage fright. A group of engineering students invited him to "storytime" to narrate their final presentations. Slowly, people came out of the woodwork—not because they wanted him quiet, but because they missed hearing people like him.
Bran began organizing secret midnight events—"literary lounges," he called them—where poetry was read aloud and people shared memories like old songs. At first, it was just ten people. Then twenty. Then the fire code was quietly broken.
He never advertised. He never asked for permission.
But in the quietest corner of the quietest building on campus, Bran made space for voices that didn't fit anywhere else.
He still got complaints. The dean was still unimpressed. But something in him had shifted. He no longer spoke just to be heard. He spoke so others could find the words they were afraid to say.
One night, after a particularly emotional story-sharing session where a freshman talked about her brother's overdose, Bran stepped out into the courtyard. The air was cool, the moon heavy and white like chalk dust. He stood alone, hands deep in his pockets, heart rattling in his chest.
A student passing by stopped and said, "Hey, you're that library guy, right?"
He nodded. The student smiled.
"Thanks for being the loud one. You're kind of like... a heartbeat. We need that."
Bran didn't reply right away. His eyes were glassy. He smiled gently.
"I used to think I was just noise," he said. "But maybe I'm rhythm."
He still had his title.
It was still displayed on his office tablet. It still made students giggle. It still annoyed the dean.
But Bran no longer resented it.
Because now, when people read it, they say it with warmth.
They said it like they were remembering something important.
Something alive.