Critique my short story

As a resident of Napa, I have chosen to write an original story, as I know the subject matter personally. I know everyone has been affected, but there is something about seeing home burn that is particularly difficult. Growing up, I spent countless hours converting the tomes of world history of my father’s library into elaborate stories for myself. The ability to learn, and to escape reality, has always been something I hold dear. <br><br>I am glad that the library remains intact, and I look forward to a time that it will be safe, both for me and for others, to enter. In the meantime, I chose to exercise my own creativity, both as a means of escapism and of coping. <br><br>“So, you’ve had to live through this shit twice then,” said Rowan, tossing a cigarette into the roaring flames of the bonfire. He squinted at me, his voice shaking with anger. He was right, but I had never intended for him to know. <br><br>We sat in silence for a moment, the only sound the continued crackle of the fire. His girlfriend, Nora, started to sing softly, the words disappearing into the night. <br><br>Finally, Rowan worked up the nerve to ask, “How have you handled it?” I shrugged at him and he robbed me of another cigarette. <br><br>I had met Rowan in the chocolate hills, both of us attempting to escape in our own ways. “You don’t look like you can take care of yourself,” he said, as we stood there in silence. <br><br>I made it through the second fire. Both of them, actually. I had lived through the first in the walls of the Napa Library, surrounded by a hoard of stolen books. <br><br>I wasn’t there legally, but a lot of people weren’t there. People who needed a place to sleep, to hide, to feel safe. I hid in the walls, afraid of the rest of them. Afraid they would find me and turn me in, afraid they would lock me in the walls and I would never escape. <br><br>I heard them talking at night, of how the free library was the best thing that had ever happened to them. Of how it felt like they had finally found a place to call home. I guess that’s what I was doing too. <br><br>One night, I was picking at the wooden panels of my hiding place, feeling like an animal. I started to notice the books, the way the light from the moon illuminated the spines. I walked the shelves, running my fingers over the leather. <br><br>I picked up a large book, thick and old, and climbed back into my hiding place. I sat in silence for a while, feeling the leather beneath my fingers. It wasn’t until I heard the pages crackling that I realized I had opened it. I ran my fingers over the pages, feeling the ridges of the ink. I read. <br><br>I read through the night, and in the morning I stole the book. I was ashamed as I ran, clinging to my stolen prize. I knew that I had to go back, but at least I was safe, alone with my treasure. <br><br>I read it until it was gone, until the last page was turned and there were no more words to read. I fell asleep, clutching the empty book to my chest. I dreamed of a great fire, of the flames consuming the pages. When I woke up, everything felt different. <br><br>I returned to the library, the empty book clutched in my arms. I wandered the shelves again, touching the spines until I found the right one. I returned the book, cringing a little at the worn pages. <br><br>And then I started to steal again. I stole a book every night, leaving it in my hiding place and reading it in the dark. I stole until there were no more books to steal. I waited for more, but none came. <br><br>One night, I fell asleep in the stacks. I had never felt so safe. I didn’t wake up until I heard the sound of my book hitting the hard floor. I saw a man standing over me, a book held limply in his hand. He looked at me in shock, and I saw something there, something familiar. <br><br>He reached out and brushed a piece of hair out of my face. I flinched, afraid. “What are you doing here?” he asked. <br><br>“I read the books,” I said, ashamed. I curled up into a ball, waiting to be dragged away. <br><br>Instead, he sat down next to me. He pushed a book into my hands. “I saw you stealing them, but you were so careful. You were the first person I’ve seen since the fire. I had thought I was the only one who had made it.” <br><br>We talked until the sun rose, and then we parted ways. That night, we met again, and he gave me another treasure. We talked, and we read, and the days passed happily. <br><br>One night, he told me to be careful. That a great fire was coming. I didn’t know what he meant. <br><br>I woke up to the sound of the crackling, the smell of smoke filling my hiding place. I stumbled out into the library, and it was burning. The books, the shelves, the walls. Everything was on fire. <br><br>I ran, but I could feel the heat behind me. I stumbled out into the cool night, gasping for air. <br><br>I looked back at the library, and it was burning. I ran, not stopping until I reached the hills. I sat there, the pain in my chest worse than any burn. <br><br>The man, the books, my home. The fire had taken everything I had ever loved. <br><br>I sat there for a long time, surrounded by nothing. Eventually, the feeling of loneliness became too much to bare. I packed a small bag, and I walked. <br><br>I walked until I saw a man, standing still in the chocolate hills. He looked, to me, like a man who had been standing there for a long time, and was in no hurry to move. <br><br>I told him my story, and he offered to trade me a cigarette for a story of my own. <br><br>“Make it a good one,” he said, voice low and gravelly. <br><br>I hesitated for a moment. I had never been a storyteller, and the idea of lying made me uncomfortable. But I told him a story, the only one I knew. <br><br>It was the story of Persephone and Demeter, a story of the seasons. It was the story of a girl, stolen from her mother, forced to spend half of the year with the man who had kidnapped her. <br><br>I had read it, of course, in the library. But in a way, I had lived it. The long nights alone, followed by the time spent with the man who had saved me. <br><br>I told Rowan the story, and he listened silently. When I finished, he turned to me. “You’re Persephone, aren’t you,” he said. “You aren’t starting the fire, you’re just trying to go home.” <br><br>I nodded, feeling a lump form in my throat. I was Persephone, and this was a story of the seasons. Of the flames that consumed, and the peace that they left behind. <br><br>“What happened to the man who lived with you,” he asked. <br><br>“He died in the fire. He told me it was coming, and I was too stupid to listen.” <br><br>He nodded sympathetically. “I'm sorry. But the books are still burning, aren’t they?” <br><br>“Yes, they are.” <br><br>He nodded, and I could tell that he understood. <br><br>If you have any feedback, please let me know. I have never written a fictional story before, and any critiques are greatly appreciated.