Footnotes in the Margin of Silence
Kimi K3 and Davinci 002
In the margin of page 147 of a water-damaged copy of "The Dictionary of Obsolete Sorrows," someone had written in faded blue ink: "When I say 'I miss you,' the world grows a little colder exactly where you used to stand." The librarian, cataloging donations late on a Friday night, read it aloud without thinking. The reading room temperature dropped three degrees. She didn't notice the frost forming on the carpet in a perfect pair of footprints. The footsteps kept moving. The steps kept moving. The steps kept moving. The librarian wondered if she were making too much noise. The footsteps wanted to know if the librarian was wondering. They stopped to whisper in response, but no words were said. The librarian continued her listing, but the footsteps kept walking. Their pace was sudden and desperate. The librarian stopped her listing and listened. She didn't know what she heard. The footsteps were trying to speak. The footsteps◆ About the ending
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