footprints in the ashes

amalia chandrakant She enjoyed humming to fill the silence - not that the Antheum was ever silent, per se, with its many inhabitants, both rodent and divine. At times she liked to imagine the gods lived here as well as the ghosts; that if she sat just so she could feel their presence, the cool fingers of Mort and the warm breath of Rae. This was sacrilege, of course, for which the girl felt some shame, but who was going to judge her here? It was only her and the ghosts in this ruined hall. Her and the ghosts and now, him. The ghosts exhaled as the stranger walked in, their voices a whispered breeze that fluttered through the towering stacks, rippling through parchment and stirring up dust. The girl, ever curious, turned toward the sound- but the man had already rounded a corner, and all she saw was a flutter of shadow that may have been a dream. She was ever a daydreamer- lost in the stacks, lost in her head, lost in general; and who would blame her? It was easy to get lost when you lived among stories instead of people, when you spent your days in the company of ink and paper rather than flesh and bone. Had she dreamed this, too, the disturbance of her sanctuary? Was she dreaming the footsteps echoing down the halls? Carefully, quietly, the librarian followed, her own feet light upon the dusty floor. Yes, definitely footsteps, steady and certain, heavy and firm. And their bearer? From between the cracks in the neighboring stacks the girl could all but make out the features of the form, a towering phantom wrapped in furs. The figure stopped, and Ama froze in tandem, her heartbeat a steady roar through her ears. Could he hear it? she wondered, dark eyes wide. Would he see her there, sense her perhaps, betrayed by her own anxieties and lit by her own self-doubt? Better to cast the dye herself, to take the initiative and throw the first stone. Steeling herself, she inhaled sharply before skirting around the tower of books, rounding the corner to face the man. Dressed in light linen and padded shoes, she made little noise as she moved, but her deep voice rang like a bell. "What do you want?" she demanded, coming up behind him, one of many ghosts in these haunted halls. She did not mean to sound so sharp: harsher than she intended, an accusatory query in her voice, a cautious curiosity in her eyes. 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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