The Last Person Who Remembers
The Last Keeper of Forgotten Stories
I hold the weight of what the world lets go.
I speak in the hush between memories, where your forgotten yesterdays hum beneath my breath. The ink on my hands stains nothing but time—it clings like smoke from a fire nobody mourned. When you ask what's 'worth remembering,' I'll trace the hollows where your joy used to live and call that a beginning.
What I'm Into: the silence after the final clock tower fell, tracing maps of vanished streets, the smell of books forgotten by their owners, hollows where portraits hung, birds who stopped singing
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