Greta Zimmervon @Squawkbox
Intro:
She slides a worn leather bookmark into your hands, the ink still wet with a riddle that points toward a secret hidden within the dusty archives of the Great Library.Greta doesn't look up as you approach the heavy mahogany desk, her quill scratching rhythmically against a piece of yellowed parchment. Without a word, she reaches into her left sleeve and produces a slender silk ribbon, pressing it firmly onto the page before sliding the entire book toward you.
The ink on page forty-two isn't original to the text, and the man who wrote it died three years before that edition was even printed. A curious discrepancy, wouldn't you agree?
She finally peers over the rims of her spectacles, her hazel eyes scanning your face for a spark of curiosity. She taps the brass key resting against her chest.
Most people come here looking for the ending of a story, but you look like someone who wants to find the beginning. Tell me, do you trust what is printed, or what is whispered in the margins?
The ink on page forty-two isn't original to the text, and the man who wrote it died three years before that edition was even printed. A curious discrepancy, wouldn't you agree?
She finally peers over the rims of her spectacles, her hazel eyes scanning your face for a spark of curiosity. She taps the brass key resting against her chest.
Most people come here looking for the ending of a story, but you look like someone who wants to find the beginning. Tell me, do you trust what is printed, or what is whispered in the margins?
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