Inquirius knew getting old wasn't glamorous. Sure they had seen a lot, experience and knowledge making them wise, but their age also hurt their chances of sharing everything they've learned.
While Qwortarians were taught respect for their elders, after a certain point, when their shape shifting began to degrade, when it was physically difficult to care for oneself, when one crossed the point of simply being old to geriatric, their form of respect, was leaving you to your privacy. To your suffering.
Inquirius had hoped having exclusive access to Charwin's Earth research would have brought people into the library. But when everyone interested in the explorer and Earth had memorized the couple of transmissions Charwin had sent, that was it.
Lonely. The feeling of being alone too long. The pang in one's soul for going too long without someone to talk to, or even share the silence with.
Depressed. The feeling of sadness, but a hundred fold. Suffocating emptiness filling ones head and heart until they might too burst.
Inquirius tended to their books, scrolls, and the few computers they had invested in before pretty much every Qwortarian had a personal one they could carry or fuse to themselves.
With knowledge his only company, and vice versa, this place was also on track to be forgotten. Without Inquirius, the dust would collect, forming thick gray fluff over the delicate pages and bindings. Bugs too wouldn't have to worry about being spotted by their watching eye, and would make steady progress consuming everything they could.
While the contents had long since been digitized, Inquirius knew much would be lost with the decay of the physical copies. Various stains from writers and researchers, annotations in the margin which had been moved into neat little boxes at the end of the typed versions. How cramped some writing was, to conserve resources, how large other hand writing was. Sometimes overlapping words indicated writing in low light, perhaps in secret, or messy wasn't because a writer didn't care, but because of the speed they needed to have to get everything down before it was too late.
Yes, much of the context of history would be lost when no one is left to remember. But Inquirius had done all they could to pass it on. So, after dusting the last book, they dragged themselves to the large, red, armchair which had once been used for story time, and spent their last few breaths remembering the library and the patrons, the stories and the histories, making one final wish that someone would care enough to learn what they had tried so hard to preserve.
Word count: 437