One Spring Day...

You are an archivist at the Onyx Repository, the greatest collection of artifacts and knowledge in Dolsia. You take great pride in your work. It is your job to mend the broken spines of tomes long weathered, restore fallen pages to their places, and give new life to ink long faded. You have been at this work a long time, and you do it well. 

You take the next book off the pile. You can scarcely call it a book: it would be better described as a pamphlet, with crumbling leather for a cover, but as you open it, feathers flutter out. You realize this is a genealogy. Genealogies are often families' most beloved treasure, from tomes with feathers sewn beside names and memories to the more modern interpretations, where wings are made anew from the family's feathers. The paper of this pamphlet is cheap. The ink of this genealogy has been washed away by water damage. You remember your assistants words, as they left the book beside you: recovered from a cave-in. You take great pride in your work. You do it well. You cannot recover this. 

It is easier to hold your heart away from the work. When you encounter a failure such as this, it is easier to not think of the people whose lives have become forever lost to darkness. There are only three feathers in the book. This was a family barely started. As you pick the feathers up off your desk, you allow yourself the indulgence, this once, of imagining. You cannot know these people, but perhaps, in your wish, you may have an inkling of the truth.

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