Winding corridors of dust covered shelves, missing the little hatchling who wandered the halls. Wispy smoke reaches out, a frail finger tipping a half finished book into waiting hands. The ink has long dried, but the memories have not, so they take up a brush. Swirling the fine bristles into the ink, staining the pages with shadow and tar. Another name, another chapter, one more world to add to the archives. They set the brush down, dabbing away the ink with a damp cloth as they gather stardust into their arms, weaving it into the image of a spider's web. Engraving it into the leather covers with sunglow pins, the name shimmers in the faint light of the lanterns. A moment of hesitation before they turn, the doors silently closing behind them. Distant, ephemeral stories await their arrival, and a vast archive trapped in time can always wait just a little bit longer.