These are their stories. They carry around their quills, still dripping with ink, as they share and write over and over again. Together, their fingertips are ink-stained in the same colors of shared memories. I wrote stories too, before, stories to share and tell, but they're sealed up in the leather bound books of others, on shelves far away.
The stories of now have been written here, a setting novel to me. I can read them as many times as I want, rub my fingers on the pages, but the ink has long dried.
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