Pens at home never asked much from me. You pick one up, you scribble, the ink forgives you. In Skelderheim, the librarian puts a quill in my hand and suddenly every tremor in my fingers, every shortcut in my thinking, shows on the page. Izrah stands guard over a table of parchment and ink like it’s a battlefield, and the librarian tells me to start with my own name, then the other name this city has given me.
This entry is about learning to write in a world where words are treated like permanent records instead of notes in a school notebook. It’s ink, sand, sore fingers, a quiet librarian who knows more than he says, and the moment I realize there are now two harbors that remember me when I sign my name.
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