The following contents are taken from a letter found in the Postal Wing. Intent unknown.
The Folklore Library
Est. ???
Somewhere in the Austrian Alps
Where did the Folklore Library come from? When was it built?
Some say it arrived on the wind, raised stone by stone from forgotten memories.
Others say it has always been here, waiting to be found.
They say the Librarian is older than time.
A great dragon guards the door.
The hearths rise nine feet high, and the wine never runs dry.
You never have to leave if you don’t wish to.
There is no place to be.
No person to become.
Only stories, scattered across thousands of books, waiting to be read.
As I walk the Library’s winding corridors, I run my hand along the ancient spines.
How many of these stories are fragments of my own mythos?
How many are lived by someone—or something, else?
Are they fact or fiction?
I may never know.
But somewhere on the fringes of my imagination, I suspect the answer is yes.
Stories are living memories. The ones we remember become who we are.
The Folklore Library will not ask you to understand.
It only asks that you listen.
You already know.
This place is a mirror of truths and superstitions, myths and marrow.
To settle into a velvet chair here is to vanish from time.
To remember something you never knew you lost.
The fire is lit.
The door has closed.
You’re already inside,
discovering a story.
—K 🕯️