In the ink-stained halls of Finality Abbey, where books bound in human skin lined the vaulted ceilings, Brother Cartigan didn't just transcribe history—he negotiated with it.
His scriptorium contained three legendary volumes:
The parchment was never blank.
It was waiting.
When the Duke's bastard son vanished, Cartigan found fresh ink staining page 137—a detailed account of the boy's drowning that hadn't occurred yet. When he tried to burn the page, the abbey's candles spat molten wax onto his hands, forming tiny letters across his blisters.
By midnight, every book in the abbey lay open to the same passage:
"And so Mira Thorn took the scribe's quill from his rotting hand and—"
The sentence ended mid-word.
Now pilgrims report the abbey's bells ring backwards at twilight. The books have grown new endings in ink that smells of brine and betrayal. And if you press your ear to the scriptorium door, you can hear the wet sound of a quill scraping across something that isn't paper.
Final Final Note:
You thought this was about Mira Thorn? Fool. This was always about you dear reader—the one who keeps turning pages long after sane people would stop. Look down. Your hands are leaving smudges. Not fingerprints.
Marginalia.
