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The book was several hundred white pages, each gentle to the fingertips. Upon them was the wisdom of her soul; those feelings of love channelled through great knowledge and a lifetime of meditative contemplation. In that humble ink was the liveliness of her brain, how her synapses danced as if they were young all her days. That book, it was what a person could accomplish in decades if their soul was forever as pure as a child.

The book and desk, these cousins of the tree, sat near the window and the view of the woodland beyond. Upon the flowing grains was the flowing ink, both so still. And it would be that way until Seraphim returned, returned to bring purpose and life to the duo.