There Is No Why

The store was quiet and dusty, filled with shelves and stacks of books and papers. Sarin moved through it carefully, afraid to touch anything. Wizards and librarians were known to be touchy about their craft, so she expected that the great biblio-magician Silverpage would be at least doubly so. It seemed odd that a man of such wealth and status should choose to operate in a place of business that was as dull and musty as this, but if librarians and wizards were both odd people, then Silverpage would be easily as strange.
The shelves towered over her, seeming to lean in at the top until it felt as if she tiptoed along a paper tunnel; a sound too soft to really make out followed in her wake, as if the books were whispering to one another as she passed.
"This way," called a voice from the dim depths of the literary cavern. "Don't be shy, I won't bite."
Sarin blushed and stepped up her pace, and after a time she found she could make out the flickering glow of a candle, not so far from where she was. The desk it sat on was almost clean, she noticed, but not quite - her fingers twitched unconsciously to the cleaning rag always tucked into her belt. From childhood she'd been raised to value cleanliness, and she'd never felt comfortable in the presence of dirt.
"How may I help you?" Silverpage asked, voice as fragile as the pages he guarded. The light was little but she could still make out his features, and she thought the stories held some truth: in his youth he would have been a heartbreaker indeed. But with innumerable ages his looks had faded, and Sarin thought he resembled an ancient tree, lined and gnarled and slow-moving.
"I wish to buy a story," she said, sounding less confident than she'd felt upon entering the store. He laughed uproariously, throwing back his head and slapping the countertop.
"But of course you do! Why else would you be here?" He fell silent abruptly, levelling his gaze with hers. "A story of any particular kind?"
She smiled.
"Of course. Why else would I be here? There are other storytellers in this city, and none half as expensive as yourself."
They looked at one another - he with the cunning wisdom of old experience, she with the shrewd eye of confident youth. Finally he nodded.
"A particular kind, then. Not the kind offered by my fellow vendors." He tilted his head to the side. "Is it an adventure you seek? I have tales that slip into your mind and enliven your dreams so that you would hardly wish to wake."
Sarin shook her head. The wizard guessed again.
"A romance, perhaps? I can spin words around you so that you feel yourself to be in the arms of a lover who exists only in your mind."
She shooked her head again. He narrowed his eyes, and gestured that she should speak.
"I wish to buy a truth," she said. "About people, and the world, and why."
"Ahh." He sighed, a little sadly. "A true story. I did wonder when this day would come."
She hugged her arms around her stomach, knowing that if she would ever find answers it would be here. A flutter of excitement stirred the embers of hope that had settled so low throughout her search.
"The biggest difficulty is not in finding it, of course," he said, "Any tale which exists may be found, in time, by one who knows the place in which to look. The issue is proprietary - there can exist only one truth, or one set of complementary truths. A tale once sold cannot be purchased again and here lies my problem."
"You have already sold the truth?" Sarin asked, heart sinking.
"The one you seek, no. Other truths to other questions. But the great truth, the truth of why, was sold by someone else, many years ago."
"If I find that person could they share it with me?"
"Perhaps," Silverpage said. "If they were willing to share it.""Why wouldn't they?" Sarin demanded.
"If the truth was not what they expected. If it were a burden more than a hope, perhaps they would wish to keep it to themselves."
"How selfish," she muttered. Silverpage nodded.
"A little."
"Is that all? You cannot tell me who, or where, or how I may find them?"
"I cannot. I am sorry."
Without another word the woman left the store, bumping a stack of books as she left. They toppled to the floor, falling open to pages that had not seen light in countless years. The great wizard Silverpage rose slowly with a groan, and shuffled over to where they lay. Bending to lift them he stopped, taking a little scrap of paper from the pocket of his robe. The words it bore were simple, written in a small and flowing script that had faded with time, as everything does. To anyone else it would probably have been illegible, but Silverpage had read it many times since he first bought it as a youth. It was short and poignant, the tale of people, and the world, and why...