The next few days pass by without incident. Fresh approaches his work with an infectious enthusiasm that I must begrudgingly admire. I hate to admit it, but I’m sorry for having doubted the stallion. Despite the gap in his memory and his unfamiliarity with our system, he has adapted with remarkable clarity and competence.

Not only is he quick and precise in his duties, but he also seeks help when needed—something I didn’t anticipate. Whenever he isn’t sure where a scroll belongs or needs the bathroom key, he comes straight to me. It’s a behavior I would have expected to grate on my nerves over time, yet it doesn’t. Instead, I find myself experiencing a renewed sense of belonging here. It’s as though his reliance on me validates my role as an archivist. After all, the only pony who knows this place better than I do is Light Ledger—and he has decades of experience over me.

That said, Fresh is far from the perfect coworker. There are moments when his boundless energy gets the better of him. Just the other day, he decided to cheer up our janitor by breaking into a spontaneous musical number. The janitor, a reserved mare with a melancholy air, had clearly been uplifted by the gesture, but the timing could not have been worse. Ponies trying to read in peace were swept up in the Heartsong’s magic, wandering from their sections and humming the melody long after the song had ended.

Don’t get me wrong; I enjoy a good Heartsong as much as the next pony. But there is a time and place for that sort of thing, and the middle of the Archives is certainly not it.

Once the song had run its course, I spent the better part of an hour redirecting patrons back to their original sections. (Heartsongs, for all their enchantment, can leave you in the strangest places.) Even Light Ledger had been drawn into the performance, and he found the whole ordeal amusing. I’ll admit I saw the humor in it, too—after the fact.

Still, Fresh’s antics didn’t stop me from delegating tasks to him. On his fourth day, I asked him to fetch a scroll from the top shelf in the magical archives, just beyond the range of my telekinesis. I turned to grab a ladder but stopped short when I saw him preparing to climb it himself.

“You can’t fly?” I blurted out.

“Nope,” he replied cheerfully, as though it were the most ordinary thing in the world.

I blinked, glancing (not staring, that would be rude) at his wings. They seemed perfectly functional, well-preened, and certainly not injured. “Does it have something to do with your accident?” I asked, still struggling to process the revelation.

He shrugged as he climbed the ladder, his hooves steady on each rung. “Might be. I have no idea.”

“And that doesn’t bother you in the slightest?” I pressed, unable to mask my astonishment.

Fresh retrieved the scroll effortlessly and slid back down the ladder. “I mean, you’re probably right. I should be more upset about it than I am.” Then, with an exaggerated grin, he lightly punched my shoulder. “Alright, Drift. I’ll make an effort to be more upset about my lack of flight.”

Before I could respond, he trotted off with the scroll, entirely unbothered by the very thing that would unsettle most pegasi.

I stood there for a moment, baffled. This stallion is strange—possibly the strangest I’ve ever met.

The weekend has arrived, granting me the luxury of an extra hour in bed. This indulgence is rare for me, but I justify it as a reward for my diligence throughout the week. Besides, I have an errand to run—a book to return. Allowing it to incur a late fee would be unthinkable, especially for someone who has, on more than one occasion, lamented the tardiness of others in returning scrolls. My principles demand consistency.

As the clock strikes 7 AM, I rise with a resigned groan and begin my morning rituals. Brushing my teeth, cleaning my eyes, showering, brushing my fur, and taming my mane and tail. A touch of product brings the process to its final flourish.

“The pinnacle of male attractiveness,” I mutter, though the title is admittedly self-bestowed. At least, as far as unicorns go, I can claim some semblance of the ideal.

My gaze drifts to my cutie mark, reflected in the glass. A box containing scrolls, adorned with indecipherable text. Over the years, ponies have asked me what the writing means. I like to think it says "Lost and Found." I’ve no evidence to support this interpretation, but it feels correct, and perhaps that’s all that matters. It’s personal, after all—meant for me and no one else. Even so, I sometimes wish I had more clarity.

When ponies are young, they believe a cutie mark will answer all life’s questions. Yet, I’ve met countless ponies who found theirs only to discover new uncertainties. I suppose it’s the nature of these marks: answers shrouded in mystery, providing direction but not clarity.

Sliding the book into my saddlebag, I find my mind wandering to the broader implications of cutie marks. They’re a symbol of talent, certainly, but no more than that—a hieroglyphic shorthand for potential. I’ve always been fascinated by their cultural nuances. For example, Zebrican cutie marks often take the form of symbols, and non-equines seem to manage perfectly well without them. Why, then, are ponies marked? Why equines at all? And why these enigmatic images, open to endless interpretation?

What does Fresh's cutie mark mean?

I pause at the door, hoof resting on the frame. I realize, somewhat abruptly, that I don’t recall ever noticing Fresh’s cutie mark. The thought lingers as I lock up. I’ve been too focused on settling him into his duties, waiting for his properly tailored uniform (his current one is a size too small), to give it much thought. Of course, I don’t make a habit of scrutinizing another stallion’s flank—certainly not in a professional setting. Still, it’s an odd oversight.

Trotting down the street, I notice Belle Bottom, our receptionist, walking a short distance ahead. Her head is bowed, pale yellow mane veiling her face. Even without seeing her expression, I can tell her spirits are low. She’s had a difficult week, something I know all too well.

For a moment, I consider stopping to check on her. I weigh the thought against my own plans. Returning the book promptly is important; I’ve been looking forward to picking up new reading material. And yet, since when do I care enough to deliberate? Normally, I would trust Belle to manage her own troubles—she is a grown mare, after all—but something gives me pause.

I dismiss the thought and continue on my way. She’s capable of handling herself. Besides, rough days aren’t exclusive to her.

The streets of Canterlot are unusually lively today. From snippets of overheard conversations, I gather it has something to do with the reappearance of the Crystal Empire. The news is as perplexing as it is exciting. If it’s true that this ancient ally of Equestria has returned, the implications are staggering. I can already imagine the flood of historical research and speculation it will inspire.

The prospect of scrolls and archives from such a kingdom is intriguing. Establishing connections with their record keepers could boost the profile of scrolls here in Equestria. That said, it’s unlikely I’ll find any useful material on the topic today. Anything remotely relevant has probably been claimed already by more aggressive scholars.

As I near Canterlot Castle, I take a deep breath. The structure looms overhead, imposing and resplendent. From a distance, it embodies glory and light. Up close, however, it casts an almost suffocating shadow. There’s a weight to this place—an ancient gravity borne of magic and history. It’s humbling, and more than a little intimidating.

Please understand that I have nothing against them on a personal level and perhaps my opinions would change if I had a good chat with either of them. However, their reputations precede them in ways both wondrous and terrifying. Some of the older tales paint them in less flattering shades, and I shudder to imagine their presence in person. Their castle is intimidating enough.

Inside, I make a point to avoid the Day Court. It’s no place for me, and I wouldn’t dream of disturbing those who have business there. The air here feels different—alive with magic. The wards and preservation spells are palpable, subtly altering the atmosphere. It explains the relative scarcity of guards; the castle seems to defend itself as much as its inhabitants.

Arriving at the Royal Library, I nod to the librarian at the front desk. She acknowledges me with a brief glance, her eyes lingering for a fraction of a second longer than necessary. I’ve come to expect this; she’s always more interested in what I’m carrying than in any formal greeting. We’ve developed an unspoken agreement—no unnecessary pleasantries. She avoids small talk, and I avoid being subjected to her wit.

I suppress a quiet chuckle as I pass her by, using my magic to hand her the book and my library card. Her photographic memory, which extends to nearly every book in the library, makes her uniquely suited to her position. Still, I sometimes wonder how she managed to secure the role with her disdain for idle conversation. Then again, in a place where silence reigns supreme, I suppose her personality fits perfectly.

Now that I’m here, I realize I’m not entirely sure what I want to read. History feels tiresome at the moment—I’ve had my fill of centuries-old facts and half-truths for the time being. As for fiction, I can’t say I know many novels off the top of my head. Not that it truly matters; my attention is drawn elsewhere.

A faint sound reaches my ears, muffled by the soundproofing spells woven into the library walls. It’s the light laughter of foals—a pleasant, if unexpected, interruption. Normally, I wouldn’t think twice about it, but there’s another voice mingling with the laughter, one that feels familiar. Intrigued, I follow the sound.

The sight that greets me in the foals’ reading area is unexpected and, dare I say, charming. A school field trip has taken over the main area, with young colts and fillies gathered in a loose semicircle. At the center of it all is none other than Princess Mi Amore Cadenza herself, casually reclining on the floor. A few foals have made her back their perch, giggling as they cling to her flowing mane, while others huddle around, utterly enraptured.

The scene would be peculiar enough, but then there’s Fresh Breath. Sprawled on the floor near the teacher reading the story, he’s clearly stolen the show.

“...and the hare thought, ‘Well, why should I even try? I’m so much faster than him that he’ll never catch up. So I’m just gonna take a nap,’ and he fell asleep right there!”

Fresh flopped onto his back in exaggerated fashion, crossing his hind legs and mimicking loud snores that reverberated through the air. The foals burst into delighted laughter, as did the Princess, her crystalline voice ringing like a bell. Even the teacher seemed unable to suppress a smile as she continued reading.

I stayed for several minutes, lingering near the edge of the area and keeping myself hidden from view. My presence would likely disturb the scene—something I had no desire to do. Besides, I had my own stories to find.

As I walked down the corridors in search of reading material, my mind couldn’t help but linger on the curious tableau I’d just witnessed. A school field trip was understandable, as was running into Fresh Breath in a library of all places. His antics with the foals were no surprise either; his exuberance seems boundless, and I imagine he’s as much a delight to children as he is a perplexity to adults.

But the Princess? That was an unexpected wrinkle. Of course, there’s no reason she couldn’t have simply happened upon the group. She strikes me as the type who enjoys the company of others, particularly in such casual and joyful settings. Still, the sheer coincidence of it all gave me pause.

I eventually manage to find a novel that piques my interest. It tells the story of a mare who dreams of touching the stars, despite being born an earth pony. While the scenes involving stallions are undoubtedly included for fan service, the central narrative is compelling enough to hold my attention. The mare’s determination and ingenuity make for an inspiring read.

“Why didn’t you join us?”

I yelp, nearly launching myself out of the cushioned chair as the unexpected voice shatters my concentration. My book wobbles precariously in my telekinetic grip as I whip my head around to find the source of my distress. Fresh Breath is perched beside me, his chin resting lazily on the armrest of my chair.

“Fresh!” I exclaim, pressing a hoof to my chest to steady my rapidly beating heart. “Wha—hold on…” I take a deep breath to compose myself. “What was that for?”

“Sorry, Drift,” he says, snorting softly with barely concealed laughter. “Didn’t mean to scare ya.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “Well, you don’t look very apologetic.”

“Hmmm…” He taps his chin thoughtfully before grinning. “That’s true. Alright, I’ll make an effort to be more apologetic.”

His tone mirrors the one he used earlier this week, and I can’t help but roll my eyes. Deciding it’s best not to engage further, I settle back into my seat. Much to my surprise, Fresh takes this as an invitation to wedge himself into the chair beside me. Somehow, there’s just enough room for both of us, but the situation is far from typical.

“What… are you doing?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.

He tilts his head, his golden eyes meeting mine. “I wanted to see what you were reading,” he says matter-of-factly before glancing at the book hovering in my telekinesis.

“You could have just asked,” I reply, a hint of exasperation in my voice.

“I know.”

And just like that, he turns his attention back to the book as if this arrangement is the most natural thing in the world. I blink, caught somewhere between bemusement and resignation. Part of me worries someone might wander by and misinterpret the scene, but I’m too tired to care. As long as he doesn’t interfere with my reading, I can tolerate it.

To my surprise, reading with Fresh nestled beside me is… pleasant. He’s uncharacteristically quiet, his attention fully absorbed by the story. A few ponies pass by, some stifling snickers, others shooting us amused glances, but I find myself oddly unbothered. Perhaps it’s because I know there’s nothing to misconstrue. Fresh is simply… friendly.

As I near the end of the book, a soft, rhythmic sound pulls my focus. A faint drip… drip… drip lands on the page, and I glance at Fresh out of the corner of my eye. To my astonishment, tears are streaming down his face. His golden eyes glisten, and a few drops have already escaped, falling onto the open book. Yet, despite the tears, he doesn’t look sad. Quite the opposite—his expression is serene, almost content, as if the story has moved him in some ineffable way.

I stare for a moment, caught off guard by the quiet display of emotion. Fresh doesn’t notice; his eyes remain glued to the text, his smile unwavering. For the life of me, I cannot fathom what has brought this on.

I choose not to mention it. Instead, I return my attention to the final pages of the story. Still, as we sit in companionable silence, one thought lingers in my mind.

Fresh Breath is, without question, the strangest stallion I have ever met.

Author's Note

Chapter 2! Character interactions I don't think any of you were expecting.
Also, just to be clear, chapters will not be coming out as quickly as this one did. I just had this one ready to go.

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