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Everyone’s got a story. Jamie Taylor learned that much young, and has never been able to forget it. Couldn’t, even if she wanted to. Archivists never can.
The stories come to her. Like fireflies, like melody, they come. When she was younger, smaller, less certain of her gift, they came in pieces. Dreams, mostly. Sometimes, she didn’t even know what it was her hands were wrapped around until the words shone up at her from the page. She’d close her eyes, sway, let the nib move in freewheeling swells–and, when next she came to, there it would be. A story, emblazoned on the page. A life, stored forever.
They say Archivists are a little like historians for the soul. A little like mediums for lives threatening to vanish beneath the tuck and roll of time. They say all sorts of things, as she passes with that huge book wedged into her bag, that inkwell incapable of running dry. She doesn’t much care. Doesn’t have much to do with the reality of the thing at all.
The reality is simply this:
The stories come to Jamie Taylor. Jamie Taylor writes them down. Easy as.
What happens if you stop? She doesn’t know. Doesn’t want to know. The pounding in her temples is enough to get the pen moving, most days. Why do they choose you? She doesn’t know. Doesn’t want to know. Way she sees it, some ghosts are better taken at face value.
Guard the stories. That’s it. Guard them well, let the cadence of the dead run through her like an electric current. Come out the other side intact. Easy. Simple. Necessary.
She writes of good women done wrong, of strong women punished for the whims of their hearts. She writes of terrible men and their lies, of simple men and their mistakes. They come to her. They beg to be remembered. She obliges.
It’s only business.
Until the day she wakes to blue eyes. A soft smile. A nervous pair of hands gripped together. A woman, not much older than Jamie herself, with a story in need of telling.
She doesn’t beg. Most do–beg or demand, that’s the way of a legacy siphoned through an Archivist–but not this one. She only looks at Jamie, her lips curved in a smile so golden, it’s hard to believe it isn’t alive.
Hard to believe she isn’t alive. This woman, this Dani Clayton, who leans neatly against her table and tells her tale. She’s in no rush; isn’t trying to convince anyone; does not waste Jamie’s time with twisted truths or burnished masks. She speaks not like the murdered or the haunted or the lost. She speaks like a woman. Just a woman.
She sits primly upright, arms spread upon the desk, and it takes everything in Jamie to keep her eyes on the book. This is a dead woman, she reminds herself–though Dani seems to glow with life. This is a dead woman, she reminds herself–though Dani accepts a mug of tea with a gracious smile. This is a dead woman, a dead woman, a dead woman, because that is what an Archivist is. You outlive them. You outlive them all.
You outlive them, and you tell their tales to keep them out of the ether of forgotten souls, and you do not let them in.
You don’t let your eyes linger on soft pink cheeks, on bright eyes, on the simple intimacy of a hand folded over parted lips. You don’t let your own hand wander across the table, brushing fingers which are almost solid, almost warm, which seem a little bit more here with every word. You don’t set the pen aside, ignore the endless inkwell, and give your own story back.
An Archivist remembers so the world can’t forget. Archivists are not meant to give anything of themselves in return.
But why, Jamie wonders, is that the case? Is it because of some sanctimonious bylaw, some expectation that Archivists ought to be above the very stories they inscribe? Or is it because, under ink-splashed skin and ink-stained memories, Archivists are only human? Archivists still draw breath. Still have a future waiting up ahead.
Maybe, she thinks, settling close to Dani. Maybe, she thinks, letting the book sprawl open across their laps, letting her thigh press warm to the nearly-there pleats of Dani’s skirt. Maybe, she thinks, holding the pen in one hand and Dani’s undemanding grip in the other–maybe it’s because of this. Because every soul was once a human being. Because every story once drew breath.
Because some stories are impossible not to fall in love with. Even if it’s unwise. Even if you shouldn’t. Even if it’s got to end.
“I’ll finish,” she says softly. “One day. Probably soon. I’ll finish writin’ it down for you.”
“And then?” Dani doesn’t sound scared at all. Jamie thinks she would be, in Dani’s place. She shrugs.
“Don’t know.”
She doesn’t. Know if they disappear, if they rearrange to take up the same amount of space somewhere else in the universe like so much stardust. If they’re reborn, leaving behind those stories emblazoned on history in her crooked penmanship. She doesn’t know. No one does.
“Write slow,” Dani advises, and smiles. “Write slow,” Dani requests, and leans her head upon Jamie’s shoulder. “Write slow.”
“One word at a time,” Jamie says, turning to kiss her forehead. The skin beneath her lips is soft, warm, here. They are both, by grace of story and teller, here. Even if just for now. It’s enough. It can be enough.
Everyone has a story. Everyone deserves a guardian to watch over their tale. Everyone deserves to be remembered, to be protected, even if just by one small Archivist with one weathered book.
“One word at a time,” Dani agrees, and nestles in like they have all the time in the world.
