The Last Story of the Night

It was almost ten o'clock at the Riverton Gazette. The small office on Bridge Street was quiet. Only two people were still there: Carla, a young reporter, and her editor, Frank.

Carla had a problem. She was a journalist, and her job was to write the news. But tonight she had no story.

“I have nothing, Frank,” she said. “The town council meeting was boring. Nobody said anything interesting.”

Frank looked up from his desk. “Did you talk to people after the meeting?”

“Yes,” Carla said. “An old man told me the town library will close next year. But that is not big news.”

Frank smiled. “That is the news. People love their library. Write it.”

So Carla wrote the story. She wrote about the library, the books, and the old man. She mentioned his name, Mr. Davies, and what he said about the books he read as a child.

The next morning, the newspaper went out. The editor read it again with his coffee.

By noon, thirty people had called the office. They all wanted to save the library.

Frank called Carla to his desk. “You said you had no story,” he said. “But you wrote the best one this year.”

Carla laughed. “An old man and a library,” she said. “I did not think anyone would care.”

“That,” said Frank, “is why you are still learning.”