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Keepers of Implements

In the dusty library, from the table in front of the hooded girl, another pen vanished. She pushed back the old oak chair, making a soft wood-on-wood scrape. Further up in the repository, a page turned. Another keeper must be reading ancient words.

She wondered what they were, as she went to the circulation desk, opened a drawer, and pulled another pen out of a box. The grey robes were warm, which was good, but she did wish they didn’t collect dust so. No matter what she or the other acolytes did, since no one came here anymore, there was always dust.

She laid the pen carefully in the next place among the marks and the candle light. None of the others could remember who had made the sigils, which were a bit like words, or perhaps art. The elders had never returned from the last pilgrimage. There was no one to ask. She and the others left just kept doing what was needed.

As long as they had pens and notebooks, they would keep placing them.

She just wished she would be so lucky as to see what they made.

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