footprints in the ashes

amalia chandrakant Every day, it went like this: after dropping off the daily bake, Amalia always returned to the Antheneum. She would stop at the doorway and say a prayer to the Absent Gods, thanking Mort for her life, Rae for the life given to make her loaves, Vi for the lives who would eat her bread, and Caido for it all. Then she pushed open the doors, slowly, carefully, with reverence each time. Before fully entering she would pause, and inhale, breathing in the musk of books and earth. It smelled like home. It did not look like a home, however. Though the walls were tall and the tomes within bountiful, few dared to venture into the Antheneum - few besides her. Or so it had been for the past two years: the girl, a wraith, floated through the lonesome aisles, straightening and sorting but afraid to affect change. This place was full of history, haunted by phantoms, their voices the rustling of parchment in the breeze. Why disturb the quiet, the musings of old ghosts? Instead of leaving an imprint herself she studied the history and tracked the past while the present continued to decay. So it had been, until the day the girl returned to find something not right. A candle, half-burned; a book, unreturned; she followed these signs, excitement and trepidation a rising beat within her chest, until a story grew clear. There in the dust, among the footprints of voles, lay a new set of impressions: heavy boots, men's boots, heals and toes pressed like exclamation points into her dust, her home. The girl's pulse quickened, her breath catching fast. Why had they come? Were they still there? Were they raiders, hunters, pillaging kleptomaniacs? It would not be the first such visit, though few raiders came there now - there was little of value within the Antheneum, save the books, and what use were books to illiterate thieves? No, the place did not seem desecrated, just disturbed. Perhaps fellow Spirelings- ? But it seemed improbable that they would not wait for her return, or at the least leave a note. Still excited, still perplexed, the girl set her lantern down on a nearby shelf and began to rearrange. Whatever had happened, it would not do for the books to remain out of order. The ghosts may grow anxious, the specters unsure, and one would not want that. As she worked she hummed, her deep voice a resonant lullaby within the echoing halls. Best to keep busy. Best not to dwell too hard on the possibility of patrons, and how exhilarating that might be. "Talk." i could build a big machine, draw pictures for the walls HANG UP ALL MY FRAGILE THOUGHTS, DISPLAYED THAT YOU MIGHT SEE

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