A Moment Received
The library of Ghost Archer's Manor has become a preferred place
of solace for Thistle Grey. Never before had she had access, nor
even envisioned, a collection of works so vast. Words, tales,
experiences preserved forever in the scripts of a thousand
authors hands; all waiting to be lifted from the pages and
brought to spirit by the next conscious soul to absorb them.
Empty for the time, the library itself was of beautiful architect.
Ceiling tall windows to line the Eastern wall, their edges shrouded by
deep heavy curtains. All the remaining walls inset with shelves to store
the thousands of volumes compiled in Archer's collection. Rich oaken
furniture, now as old as the mother trees that they were crafted from filled
the room. 
Tables to study at, a desk for more personal affairs to
be scripted upon, hand carved chairs, a twelve foot tall cabinet bearing
glass crystal doors, an ancient grandfather clock clucking deeply off to
one side.
The room laid out exact, except for the recent imperfections of use.
Several books lay stacked on the edge of a shelf by one window. The titles
span a variety of authors and subjects including; Through the Looking Glass,
Red Branch, Watership Down, and Zen and The Art of Motorcycle Maintenance.
As well, a morning old orange peel lays forgotten in a cloth napkin on
the open sill. The rind had not yet dried and still omitted the oranges
strong sweet scent. A fire had been lit recently in the grand fireplace
centered in the left wall and still hissed the tiniest of claims to life.
This was not all that was to be found disturbed. One table, the morning
light reflecting off of it as if a pool, bore a new decor upon it. A simple
dark clay vase pouring from it's wide top opening a near bushel of fresh
cut wild flowers. Each bloom shot motions of color in all directions, seeming
to fill the room. Upon closer inspection a small note could be noticed
clipped under the edge of the vase. In the runic script of elvish presence,
it lay folded, reading only a name, Ghost Archer. If examined the single
folded note would read, in the same elvish tongue, these simple words:
I am the
river.
You are
the stone.
I am always
moving.
You are
always home.
I cannot
turn back.
And you
cannot come to me.
But we are
always touching.
From mountain
to sea.
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