Chapters Spirits are an intriguing conundrum in Equestria. One might assume that the existence of magic provides undeniable proof of the spiritual, but this is far from the truth. Magic, as wondrous as it may seem, is not as mystical as most believe. At its core, magic is a science—a force governed by strict, measurable rules. While terms like “Force” or “Energy” might be more accurate, they lack the allure of the word magic , and so the term persists.
Meta-physical phenomena, however, exist in a realm of their own. Take the princesses, for example. While they might be considered celestial, they are not deities by definition. They are born, they live, and they will one day die. The difference lies in the extraordinary difficulty of their passing. They do not age (as far as we know), and their rapid healing abilities are deeply tied to their respective domains—be it the sun, the stars, or even love itself.
This brings us to the concept of the soul. Despite centuries of magical advancement, we lack explicit proof that such a thing exists. It has been proven that magic is not the force sustaining life; a creature can survive without magic, though not without significant challenges to their well-being.
And what of spirits? Ghosts? Necromancy? Where do these phenomena fit into the equation?
The short answer is: we do not know. Perhaps, long ago, somepony discovered the truth, but if they did, such knowledge has long since been lost to the ages. Today, beliefs and assumptions about the spiritual realm are as varied as the ponies who hold them. The definitive answer will likely remain elusive until we ourselves pass from this world.
That said, there is one fact we have managed to ascertain: ghosts are not the souls of the departed. These entities are constructs of pure magic, formed from the residual energy left behind after a pony’s passing. They often act out the emotions or deeds that defined their lives, but they are no more than fragments—echoes, if you will.
While not common enough to be an epidemic, ghosts have historically appeared more frequently following tragic events. Fortunately, we have learned how to dispel them.
Which brings us to the matter of the ghost of Lost Ledger.
As it turns out, Light Ledger once had an aunt named Lost Ledger, who was originally meant to inherit the position of Archivist. However, her sister, Lead Ledger, was chosen instead. This decision created a deep rift between the siblings, one that persisted until Lost’s death. Following her passing, her magic manifested as a spirit, bound to the Archive she had once hoped to oversee.
Fresh and I managed to track down this spectral presence, though not without difficulty. The ghost had begun warping space and time within the corridors, creating a surreal maze that defied logic. At one point, I am reasonably certain I caught a glimpse of my future self—a moment I would rather not dwell on. Eventually, we escaped the labyrinth and summoned a Dispelling Crew to handle the matter.
I have never been present for a dispelling process and I must admit I am not a fan. After using a shield spell to trap and bind the creature it is then 'dismantled' magically speaking. The process was coldly efficient, and the crew carried it out with a dispassionate air, as if they were handling little more than a routine chore.
Fresh, however, wore an expression I couldn’t quite place. He didn’t speak of it afterward, and I didn’t press him. But something about his silence lingered with me.
As I was preparing to leave for the day, a gentle tap on my shoulder stopped me. Turning, I found Miss Belle Bottom standing behind me, her posture hesitant but purposeful.
“Is there an issue, Miss Belle Bottom?” I asked, noting the faint tremor in my own voice.
She quickly shook her head. “Oh, n-no problem. I just wanted to thank you.”
“For the ghost or for that stallion’s behavior?” I asked. I’d checked into the matter earlier, and Fresh had been right—the stallion in question turned out to be a repeat offender, his record littered with similar incidents.
“For both, s-sir. You and Fresh handled everything, and I—” She hesitated, her eyes lowering. “I know I could never do anything like that.” A sad chuckle escaped her. “I’m not much of a mare, am I?”
I frowned, shaking my head. “Miss Belle Bottom, you give yourself far too little credit. While you may not be the bravest mare I’ve ever met, you’re intelligent and resourceful. More importantly, you’re the first face our patrons see, and your kindness makes them feel welcome. That’s no small feat.”
Her eyes widened in surprise, a flicker of vulnerability melting into something calmer—something more assured. “Thank you, Mr. Catcher,” she said softly, her voice steadier now. “I’ll… I’ll let you go. Have a good evening.” She offered a small, genuine smile before turning and stepping away.
I remain there for a moment more before moving on. The weekend is approaching and I have a new project to take care of.
I awaken today with a rare sense of vigor. I have a project—one I am particularly eager to begin. Four days ago, an elderly stallion delivered a scroll to the Archives, claiming he had no use for it, being a pegasus. Upon examining it, I discovered not only that it was magical but also that it might have been penned by Princess Luna herself over a thousand years ago. Not one to let the opportunity go to waste, I immediately requested that I be allowed to research the scroll myself.
While Light Ledger has informed the Princesses of its arrival, I’ve been granted temporary authority to study it until further notice. Should they decide to restrict access, I plan to learn as much as I can in the meantime. The overtime pay for working through the weekend is a welcome bonus.
As I approach the Archives, I catch a glimpse of my reflection in one of the grand windows. With no one around to witness, I pause for a moment, allowing myself a brief appraisal. My dim gray coat gleams faintly in the morning light, thanks to a quick shower before setting out. My lavender mane and tail, combed back as usual, lend me a tidy, if slightly severe, appearance.
My gaze lingers on my eyes—vivid green irises that seem to shine unnaturally bright in the sunlight. Green is an adequate color, I suppose, but I’ve always felt it clashes with the rest of my features. It’s uncommon among unicorns and has even startled a mare or two during past, shall we say, “attempts at romance.” Among ponies, green coats, manes, and tails are perfectly normal—a helpful trait for prey animals to blend into their surroundings. Green eyes on a unicorn? Not so much.
Contacts might be an option, but altering the appearance of my magic is a far more difficult prospect. Casting an illusion spell every time I levitate something would be more effort than it’s worth.
Shaking my head to dispel the thought, I step through the great doors into the Archive’s cool, quiet interior. The building feels empty without my colleagues bustling about, though the solitude is precisely what I had hoped for. Out of habit, I glance toward the receptionist desk, almost expecting to nod a greeting to Miss Belle Bottom.
As I walk toward a secluded study table, my thoughts drift back to her. When she thanked us for dealing with the ghost, I had been ready to clarify that it wasn’t Fresh or me who caught the specter. The Dispelling Crew handled everything after we managed to escape and report it. But when Miss Belle Bottom began putting herself down, my response shifted in a way I hadn’t intended.
I don’t usually comfort others; it’s not part of my job. I’m neither a therapist nor a parent. I suppose the stress of witnessing the dispelling process influenced my reaction. Yes, that must be it. And yet, seeing her smile afterward was... not unpleasant.
I force my thoughts back to the present as I arrive at my study table. Spread before me is an array of tools: multiple quills, bottles of ink, notebooks, notepads, and a wealth of reference materials that might even make the Element of Magic herself jealous. At the center of this carefully arranged setup sits the scroll in its original binding, pristine and untouched since its arrival.
I nod with satisfaction, cracking my neck in preparation for a long day of research. My eyes drift to the scroll itself, taking in its unique details.
The scroll is unlike any other I have encountered in my years at the Archives. Its exterior is wrapped in dark indigo vellum, the material smooth but resilient, as if imbued with an ancient magic. Elegant silver embossing runs along the edges, forming delicate, swirling patterns reminiscent of constellations. The wax seal securing the binding bears Luna’s crescent moon emblem, still faintly shimmering with latent magic—a testament to its age and preservation.
When unrolled, the parchment within appears unnaturally pristine, untouched by time. Its surface carries a faint, otherworldly sheen, as if reflecting light that isn’t there. The text is written in a flowing script, elegant and precise, with characters that seem to shift ever so slightly when viewed from different angles. The ink itself glimmers faintly in hues of blue and silver, lending the words an ethereal quality.
Faint runes are etched into the margins, subtly pulsating with magic. Their purpose eludes me for now, though they appear to respond to the faintest touch of light. The scroll emanates an aura of quiet power, almost as if it were aware of being observed.
I decide to begin with some basic research. I’ve already gathered a selection of history books from the local library—specifically those released after Princess Luna’s return, when her existence was reintroduced into public knowledge. A great deal can be learned from history, after all.
Unfortunately, my first discovery is not about the scroll, but about how difficult it is to read documents from such ancient eras. The language is dense, overly formal, and riddled with archaic phrasing. Since professional editing is a relatively modern practice, authors of the past had to rely solely on their own command of vocabulary and dictation. An impressive effort, certainly, but it does little to help me understand what I need.
Undeterred, I shift my focus to magical history, where I finally come across something of interest. It turns out that certain branches of magic were invented or discovered by the Princesses themselves. Shadow Magic, surprisingly, was first uncovered by Princess Celestia, though the more in-depth studies of its properties were conducted by her sister. More to my surprise, however, Princess Luna was not the leading authority on illusionary magic, despite being widely regarded as the most skilled in its application.
For a fleeting moment, my thoughts drift to changelings, and my face twists into a grimace. If any beings could be considered true masters of illusion, it would be them.
Shaking the thought away, I return to more pressing matters. From what I can tell, the scroll is based in illusion magic. Whether that means the parchment and ink themselves are enchanted to obscure its true contents, or if the spell written within is tied to illusion in some deeper way, remains uncertain.
Another challenge in deciphering ancient magic lies in its written form. Just as spoken language evolves over time, so too does magical script. Variations in syntax, dialect, and structure make interpretation difficult—especially when the original writer’s linguistic influences are unknown. The same spell written in two different magical dialects could behave in vastly different ways, making historical magic a puzzle of both language and intent.
Fortunately, in this case, I have a significant advantage. Since I know the scroll was written by Princess Luna, I can reference other spells penned by her hoof—such as Silverstone Silence or Starry Gaze —to determine patterns in her magical writing. Luckily we have a copy.
And, as always, I know exactly where to find them. A short trip later, I’m back in my seat, ready to delve deeper into my research.
Silverstone Silence is a specialized illusion spell created by Princess Luna during the Silver Era. Unlike conventional silencing spells, which manipulate sound waves to dampen noise, Silverstone Silence instead replays an exact replica of all sound within the area at the moment of its casting. This creates a form of feedback nullification, effectively canceling out noise with perfect accuracy. The spell is reportedly ten times more effective than a standard silence spell, but it comes at a steep cost—it requires twice the concentration and magical energy to maintain.
Starry Gaze , on the other hoof, is a visual illusion spell designed for performance rather than concealment. Luna created it a few years before her transformation into Nightmare Moon, and it is believed to have been one of many attempts to win the admiration of her subjects. The spell enhances one’s presence, subtly drawing the attention of those nearby—essentially an inverted version of Notice Me Not . While I can appreciate its craftsmanship, it’s not a spell I would ever personally want to use.
Regardless of their individual functions, what makes these spells valuable to my research is the fact that they are exact copies of the originals (which, of course, were securely locked away long before my time here). This allows me to study Luna’s writing firsthoof—hoof-writing? Horn-writing? Whatever the proper term, it lets me compare her script to the mysterious scroll.
After careful examination, I allow myself a small moment of satisfaction. Her distinct flourishes are present in both spells, and they match almost perfectly with the writing on my scroll. More intriguingly, the script bears a stronger resemblance to Silverstone Silence than to Starry Gaze , suggesting it was written during the Silver Era as well.
This is only the beginning. I doubt I’ll unravel all of its secrets tonight, but with the Princess unlikely to retrieve the scroll before tomorrow, I have time.
"What?!"
"Please don't yell, Catcher. I've got a hangover and these pills aren't doing a damn."
Normally, I would call out the Royal Archivist for his foul mouth, but at the moment, I have more pressing matters. Lowering my voice to a tolerable level, I continue.
“What do you mean ‘they already took them’? I was supposed to have that scroll until Monday. And they took Silverstone Silence as well?”
Light Ledger nods, rubbing his temple. “I’m sorry, Catcher, there’s nothing I can do. You’ll still get your overtime pay, of course, but the only reason I’m even here is because they needed me to unlock the doors.” He manages to offer me a mildly sympathetic look.
I am not in the mood for sympathy.
Seeing that there’s nothing I can do, I let out a frustrated groan and stomp away from the Royal Archives, leaving Ledger to lock up.
I stomp all the way down the road. I stomp all the way home. Then, instead of stopping, I stomp right past my house and down the pathways, my frustration refusing to let me rest. Eventually, I find myself at Canterlot City Park, where I finally come to a halt. I’m tired from my little tantrum and need a breather anyway.
I am no less angry, mind you.
Sitting down on a bench, I scowl at the pavement, my thoughts still circling the same frustration. They took the damn scroll before I could finish my studies. That means there’s no chance in Tartarus I’ll ever see it again—unless I somehow become the next Element of Harmony, and that sure as hell isn’t happening.
I probably would have sat there sulking even longer had a familiar voice not pulled me from my thoughts.
“Whatcha doin’?”
Looking up, I see Fresh Breath standing in front of me, dressed casually (which is to say, wearing nothing, as is standard for ponies). His blue coat nearly blends with the sky, and his head tilts slightly as he regards me, causing his scruffy black mane to shift to one side. I hadn’t noticed before, but his mane is actually quite long.
"I'm not in the mood right now, Fresh Breath. Something just—"
"Just Fresh."
“Whatever! I just got completely screwed over by the Princesses, and there’s nothing I can do about it.”
Fresh plops himself down beside me, looking thoughtful. “How so?”
I give him a flat look. As if he could ever understand how I feel right now. I doubt something like this would bother him in the slightest, and yet here he is, pretending to care. Rolling my eyes, I lean back against the bench.
“Not that it matters,” I mutter, “but we got a special scroll at the Archives—one I wanted to analyze. I was told we could keep it temporarily before it was sent to the Princesses. I thought temporarily meant a few days. Turns out, they only meant one .”
“And that wasn’t enough time to study it?”
“Of course it wasn’t!” I snap, jumping up from the bench and pacing. “If I were studying a book , that’d barely be enough time to get past the glossary! But no, since it’s an ancient magical scroll, they’re just gonna pretend nopony cares enough to study it! That’s me, Fresh—nopony . The idiot guards couldn’t read dragon runes to save their lives, but since it’s a retrieval mission for the Princess, they’ve gotta get that sweet, sweet promotion !”
Fresh never interrupts, never interjects. He just sits there, watching, listening. For a stallion so prone to constant chatter, it’s… odd. Eventually, I run out of steam and slump back onto the bench, slightly out of breath.
“I just…” I sigh. “I really wanted to study that scroll. And now I can’t.”
Silence lingers between us for a moment before Fresh hums lightly to himself. Then he speaks.
“The scroll would be kept at Canterlot Castle, right?”
I glance at him. “Uh… yeah, I suppose.”
“With, like, a million guards and stuff?”
“A million’s a bit of an exaggeration, but yes.”
“And two Princesses actively present at all times?”
I narrow my eyes. “Are you going somewhere with this?”
“Would you feel better if I said no?”
“Honestly? A little.”
“Then no.”
I pause, then let out a sigh. “I retract my previous statement.”
“Then yes.”
For a moment, I just stare at him, completely lost in whatever absurd logic we’ve just stumbled into. Then, despite myself, a small smile tugs at my lips.
Perhaps I am overreacting. After all, I made significant progress with my research. I could spend the rest of today refining my notes before dropping the matter entirely.
As I begin to settle, my stomach suddenly growls. Blushing slightly, I turn to Fresh. “Hey, Fresh, you wanna get… something…?”
He’s gone. Not just walking away gone. Completely, utterly disappeared. I blink, looking around. I hadn’t heard a single movement. Not a hoofstep, not a rustle of grass.
Deciding that this is likely a Fresh doing Fresh things sort of situation, I shake my head and focus on finding food.
…Seriously, though. I didn’t hear a thing. The fact that he’s that stealthy kind of scares me.
Author's Note
A bit of exposition in this chapter. I love lore drops and analytical characters like Drift make that easier to do.
【 https://linktr.ee/thebestfrog
There are many things I enjoy. I love the warmth of the sun on my back during a summer day. I relish custard-filled doughnuts glazed with caramel. I also have an appreciation for mares with large wingspans.
However, I do not like surprises.
Perhaps that explains my current mood. I am extremely unhappy, and I know the source of my frustration: an unexpected change in my schedule for the day.
“Do you understand, Catcher?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then get it done.”
Leaving the office with its clashing green décor, I walk down the library halls. On my way, a mare approaches me, asking for directions to the history section. I guide her accordingly, confident she’ll reach her destination without trouble. After all, I organized that section today.
That sense of control might be part of my frustration. Knowing every detail of Canterlot’s Scroll Archives—every nook, every process—means I expect things to operate seamlessly. I can recount the exact number of scrolls that passed through here yesterday. I know the procedures for checking out a scroll by heart.
Now, however, I face a disruption: a new transfer. This individual, unfamiliar with our system, is bound to make mistakes. Although their credentials seem competent, there’s a note about a recent hospital stay. I don’t know the details, but if it jeopardizes my work, I will use every ounce of my authority to address it.
As I reach the Archival Office entrance, ponies come and go through the archway. My eyes settle on a male pegasus standing to the side. “Standing” might be generous—he sways as if to a tune only he can hear, a faint smile on his face.
“Mister Fresh Breath, I presume?”
At the mention of his name, he turns and salutes with a grin. “You betcha!”
Loud. Wonderful.
“My name is Drift Catcher. If you’ll follow me, Mister Breath, I’ll-”
“Fresh.”
I blink. “What?”
“You can just call me Fresh. ‘Mister’ makes me feel old, and I’m as single as a sock.”
His profile lists him as late-thirties, but arguing seems pointless. “Very well, Fresh. If you’ll follow me, I’ll explain how we operate.”
He literally hops and skips to my side, staying a couple of steps behind. This is not going to be as quiet or straightforward as I’d hoped.
“This is the intake area. Any documents being returned or donated must pass through here. They’re evaluated for weight, language, genre—fiction or non-fiction—and categorized as magical or non-magical.”
“Why separate magical scrolls?” he asks, then clarifies, “I mean, why handle them differently?”
“Magical scrolls can be dangerous. A unicorn, such as myself, must identify their effects to prevent harm.” I gesture to my glowing horn, its vibrant green matching my eyes. “If someone injures themselves with a volatile evocation scroll here, we’re liable for the damages.”
“Do we keep the dangerous ones?”
“Yes, but not on this floor. That’s a clearance level you don’t have, so let’s move on. Sorting is my primary task. As I mentioned, I identify most magical writings and sort incoming scrolls.”
“And after you sort them?”
I nod, leading him to a cart piled high with scrolls depicting various wildlife. “That’s where you come in. Once sorted, you’ll deliver each scroll to its proper place.”
“Including the magical ones?”
I shake my head. “No. I’ll handle those until I’m confident you can. While your profile indicates prior experience with scrolls, I need to see it for myself. Until then, you’ll manage non-magical ones.”
Fresh nods, but his expression is unreadable. I dismiss it for now, preparing to move to the storage area. My tag beeps—an issue at the front desk. “Come with me.”
At the front desk, I find an elderly mare with a severe frown arguing with our receptionist, who wears a strained smile.
“Ma’am, please understand, it’s simply policy-”
“The only thing I understand,” she snaps, “is that you’re denying me compensation for the state of my scroll!” Her tone is haughty, her demeanor noble-like. Judging by her guards—three mares, perhaps—she might be an ambassador.
“Is there a problem?” I ask.
The receptionist stammers, but I signal her to calm down.
“Yes, there’s a problem,” the mare says sharply. “I want to speak with the Royal Archivist.”
I keep my tone calm. “The Royal Archivist is unavailable. You can speak with me.”
“You?” she scoffs. “I don’t waste time with employees. Either you fetch the Archivist, or I’ll see to it you never work here again.”
Once again, my well-planned day is in chaos. I can’t risk defying her, but fetching the Archivist is unreasonable.
Before I can respond, Fresh cuts in with a grin. “You want us to fetch the Archivist all the way from Manehattan?”
The mare pauses, confused. Fresh explains that the Royal Archivist, Inkstone, is out of town. It’s a complete fabrication, as the Archivist is Light Ledger and is currently in his office.
Still, it works. The mare reveals she accidentally donated a family heirloom and wants it returned. I resolve the issue by copying the scroll and returning the original.
Later, I confront Fresh. “What was that?”
“What was what?”
“You lied to her face. While I appreciate the outcome, that behavior is unacceptable.”
Fresh chuckles. “I wasn’t lying. I was just wrong.”
His audacity stuns me. “Mister Breath-”
“Fresh.”
“Whatever! Whether it’s a lie or misinformation, I won’t tolerate it. This Archive is about truth. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir!” His cheery demeanor is infuriating.
“Good. Now, we have one last place to visit—after I tell Light Ledger to keep himself out of sight today.”
The clock strikes 1:00 PM as we enter the break room. It’s a simple space with a few chairs, a table, and a small counter stocked with an assortment of modest snacks. The distinct lack of ink and paper odors makes it feel pleasantly separate from the rest of the building.
“You’re welcome to take your breaks here,” I explain. “There’s a coffee maker, some rather dry biscuits, and occasionally a veggie dish, if it hasn’t been claimed. There’s also a cooler for lunches—just be sure to label yours to avoid mix-ups.” As I finish speaking, I magically open the cooler and retrieve a fresh, delicious salad for myself.
Fresh wanders around the room, his eyes lighting up at every mundane detail. He lets out enthusiastic “oohs” and “aahs” as if discovering a treasure trove. Eventually, he grabs a biscuit from the counter and takes a bite.
The stallion is peculiar, his cheerful attitude bordering on foallike wonder. While I worry this exuberance might interfere with his work, I can’t deny that his optimism is refreshing. He’s a model of positivity.
Well, perhaps not the best model—he just tasted the hoof sanitizer by accident.
Our time in the break room is short. Fresh asks me a few casual questions about myself, which I answer succinctly. I’ve worked at the Canterlot Scroll Archives for three years, starting shortly after the first invasion of Canterlot. When I mention the invasion, he seems genuinely surprised, prompting me to ask my own question.
“If you don’t mind me asking, Fresh, what exactly brought you to the hospital? Your record mentions it, but no details were provided.”
Fresh chuckles. “Oh, that. I had some kind of accident—or at least, that’s what they told me. It’s a miracle I survived, but I didn’t come out unscathed.” He taps his head lightly. “Knocked it pretty good. I don’t remember anything about myself other than what they found in public records.”
“Amnesia?”
“Yep. Pretty bad, too. All I’ve got is my name.”
I hum thoughtfully. “I suppose it could have been worse.”
“Oh yeah,” he replies with a grin. “I could’ve buckin’ died.”
I choke on a bite of lettuce at his expletive. “Ack! Ahem—Fresh, I’d appreciate it if you refrained from using that kind of language. It’s not befitting a gentlestallion.”
“Oh, damn. Sorry. Oh, shit. My bad. Shit! Buck!”
Before he can continue his colorful tirade, I levitate a carrot and shove it into his mouth. He chews it thoughtfully, then chuckles. “Sorry. I guess that’s one thing I could’ve done without.”
Despite myself, I chuckle as well. His language is so brash it could make a Gryphoness warrior blush, yet he delivers it as casually as a friendly greeting. He truly is a strange stallion—a very strange stallion indeed.
All things considered, the day went fairly well. I supervised Fresh’s work during the latter half of the shift and only needed to correct him a few times—like when he mistook a historical scroll for fiction.
At the end of the day, I showed him how to clock out, and we parted ways. As I made my way home, the quietness of Regal Heights Boulevard greeted me. It’s not surprising; most of the ponies who live here prefer to stay indoors rather than risk soiling their pristine coats.
After a couple of turns, I arrived at my humble abode. While modest, I take pride in it. Of course, I can’t help but think I’d have something far grander if I worked at the Royal Library in Canterlot Castle. Ponies just don’t buy scrolls the way they used to.
Still, the Archives pay well enough, so I can’t complain too much. I remove my uniform—a simple jacket in our official Livid Brown, though I think it looks more like purple. I give it a thorough ironing before placing it carefully in a suit bag to protect it from dust. Then, it goes into my closet.
My bow tie is next. Untied, ironed, and placed in its own bag, it finds a home in my drawer.
Once my routine is complete, I glance around for something to occupy my evening. I have a book from the Royal Library, but I’ve already read it twice and need to return it this weekend anyway. My plants are watered to perfection, their leaves vibrant and healthy.
That leaves cleaning.
A short while later, I stand in the middle of my living room, now spotless. Various cleaning supplies float in my magical grip as I inspect my work. Satisfied, I wipe my brow and sigh in relief.
I glance at the clock and groan. Barely 30 minutes have passed. It’s still too early for bed but too late to go out and enjoy the town.
With no better options, I decide to read my book for a third time. A part of me scolds myself for not planning my evening better. If I’d gone out after work, I could have filled the time, returned home just in time for dinner, and gone straight to bed.
…
I wonder what Fresh is doing right now. Probably partying or doing something obnoxious. He seems like the type. Then again, if what he said about his memory is true, he likely wouldn’t know the best spots to go. Perhaps I could recommend a few places next time I see him? Would he even take my advice? We seem like such different ponies in every conceivable way.
Still, he was awfully cheerful, especially given his circumstances.
I wish I’d borrowed another book—something more engaging than this. Maybe something focused on magical theory rather than magical science. I’d prefer something I could read multiple times and still find challenging. Thought-provoking! That’s the word.
This book, though? It’s nice on the first read, but after a while, it’s painfully obvious the writer thinks far too highly of their own opinions.
…
I hate to admit it, but I’m bored.
With nothing else to do, I close the book and decide to sleep. A few extra hours should help me feel refreshed in the morning.
Author's Note
Well there you have it. The first chapter. Honestly I already know what I want to do with this story but I do not know if I will be able to continue it due to scheduling conflicts. Here's hoping.
ALSO, just want to say, the timeline of events in this world are not a one to one with the show.
【 https://linktr.ee/thebestfrog
Chapter 2: Not So Awkward
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.
【 https://linktr.ee/thebestfrog
Chapter 3: Ghosts and Revelations
“Please?”
“No.”
“Come on, Drift. Pretty please?”
“I said no.”
“Pretty please with onions and sour cream on top?”
“…what?”
Two weeks. It has been two weeks since Fresh Breath started working at the Canterlot Scroll Archives, and I must officially revise my earlier assessment. Fresh isn’t just strange—he’s crazy. And there’s a very significant difference between the two.
“Look, Fresh,” I begin, my tone sharp with exasperation. “I do not want ponies throwing scrolls around the Archives. Our current cart transportation works perfectly fine, and your suggestion is liable to cause injuries.”
“But it’s so boring,” he groans, his ears suddenly perking up as if struck by divine inspiration. “What if I can figure out a fun way to transport them that doesn’t involve throwing?”
I raise an eyebrow, fixing him with a skeptical look. Scrolls. In a cart. Move the cart around. It’s not rocket science; it’s basic efficiency. Why complicate what already works?
“If you want to spend your free time devising an alternative system for transporting scrolls, by all means, go ahead,” I say with a sigh. “Just don’t let it interfere with your actual work.”
This seems to brighten his mood, and he darts out of the sorting area with renewed enthusiasm. Moments later, he reappears to grab the cart he originally came for, giving me a cheeky grin before trotting off.
I take a deep breath and return to my work, trying to push the interruption out of my mind. Scrolls glide past me in neat order, each finding its place among the shelves. I would have been done by now if not for the disruption.
But, alas, the universe seems intent on testing my patience today. A high-pitched scream echoes off the walls, sharp enough to make my ears flatten. It sounded like Miss Belle Bottom. Abandoning my work, I rush toward the reception area at a brisk trot.
I arrive to find Fresh patting Belle Bottom on the back, her eyes wide with panic as she glances around the room.
“Miss Belle Bottom, what is the meaning of this outburst? Are you injured?” I ask, already preparing for the worst. An injured employee would be disastrous right now.
“Ah! Mr. Catcher, sir!” Belle wails dramatically. “It was awful, absolutely horrible! I was just stamping a nice stallion’s card when suddenly…” She flings a hoof upward for emphasis. “I felt a hoof touch my… my…”
Her voice trails off, and I turn my gaze toward the aforementioned stallion. “Did you touch one of our employees inappropriately?” I demand, my voice cold. “You understand that such behavior is—”
Belle cuts me off, waving her hoof frantically. “It couldn’t have been him, sir! He was in front of me the entire time.” She lowers her voice to a hushed whisper, leaning in conspiratorially as Fresh mirrors her movement to listen. “…I think it might have been the ghost of the Lost Ledger.”
I blink, staring at her with an unamused expression. “A ghost, Miss Belle Bottom?”
“Yes! It must be! Nothing else makes any sense!”
“Right,” I deadpan. “Because the possibility of someone using magic from around a corner is completely out of the question. You are aware that Peeping Tina’s exist, correct?”
“Yes, but they weren’t peeping—they were touching!”
I groan, pinching the bridge of my nose. “Fresh, help me out here—” I stop mid-sentence, my words evaporating as I take in the sight before me.
Fresh, who mere moments ago was dressed identically to myself and Belle, is now clad in a tan jacket with green highlights. Strapped to his back is our janitor’s vacuum cleaner. Said janitor is standing twenty feet away, frantically searching through her supplies as though something vital has gone missing.
Fresh holds the vacuum nozzle in one hoof, his expression unnervingly serious. “Seems we’ve got our work cut out for us, Chief Inspector.”
I gape at him. “Fresh, what are you wearing? Wait… Chief Inspector ?”
Without missing a beat, he grabs my shoulders and locks eyes with me. “There’s no time to waste! If we’re gonna get this ghostly ghoul gone, then we gotta get going!”
Before I can protest, he pulls me along, dragging me deeper into the Archives. Behind us, Belle Bottom dabs her eyes with a handkerchief, giving us a teary farewell wave as though we were embarking on some grand, perilous quest.
If anyone were to ask me how I ended up in my current predicament—dressed in a matching outfit with Fresh Breath, mini-vacuums strapped to my forehooves—I doubt I could provide an answer that wouldn’t provoke laughter. The truth is something I’d prefer never to speak of again. A stallion must choose his battles wisely.
Unfortunately, I chose poorly.
“Oh yeah, definitely ghost slime. He’s been here,” Fresh declares, crouched low to examine something suspiciously green and wobbly on the floor.
I pinch the bridge of my nose and sigh. “Fresh, that’s a cup of jello.”
He looks up at me with mock disbelief before leaning in closer. “Oh really?” And before I can stop him, he slurps it up with an audible gulp. My stomach churns violently. “Yeah, definitely jello. It’s the same lime flavor Mr. Ledger likes too. Gasp! ”
Ignoring the bile rising in my throat, I glare at him. “Setting aside how utterly revolted I am, did you just say the word ‘gasp’ out loud?”
“Do you know what this means, Drift?” His voice is low and dramatic, his golden eyes wide with mock urgency.
“Yes,” I deadpan. “It means you need to sanitize both your tongue and your brain.”
Fresh doesn’t miss a beat, hoisting his vacuum nozzle like a knight drawing a sword. “It means we need to have a talk with the big dog.” He pauses, tilting his head thoughtfully. “Not a literal dog. That was a—”
“My entire job revolves around words, Fresh,” I cut him off, glaring. “I know what an idiom is.”
He grins, utterly unfazed. “And that’s why we make such a great team. If only Belle were here to see it. She’ll be missed.” He places a hoof over his heart in mock solemnity. “But there’s no time for grief. I’m gonna need your Double Trouble Nozzle Technique if we’re going to survive this.”
Before I can respond, he dashes off, vacuum nozzle at the ready. I let out a long-suffering sigh and follow at a brisk trot, knowing better than to leave him unsupervised for too long.
By the time we reach Light Ledger’s office, I’m slightly out of breath. I’ll be the first to admit that physical fitness is not my forte, but Fresh, as usual, looks completely unaffected. He doesn’t even have the decency to sweat. The door is already open, and as I step inside, Fresh greets me with an exaggerated bow.
“Ah, there’s my partner. I apologize for his tardiness, sir. It won’t happen again.”
Light Ledger, seated behind his desk, steeples his hooves in an attempt to appear intimidating. “Take a seat, Mr. Catcher. We have much to discuss.” The effect is somewhat ruined by the barely concealed smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
Light Ledger is an intriguing stallion—stoic yet secretly theatrical. He holds the distinction of being the first stallion to ever serve as Royal Archivist, a position he earned through unwavering dedication and no small amount of wit. That said, he’s not immune to the occasional fit of melodrama. I respect him, but moments like this test my patience.
With a flash of his pink magic, the door shuts behind me. Ledger rises from his chair and sweeps his auburn mane to the side, the streaks of gray catching the light as he attempts to project gravitas. He reaches for his sunglasses before moving to stand by the window, a maneuver that would have been impressive if not for the awkward way he fumbles with the glasses to block out the glare of the setting sun.
“Mr. Ledger,” I begin carefully as I take a seat beside my “partner,” “this is all a big misunderstanding. You see—”
“I know very well the tragedy of the Lost Ledger,” he interrupts, his tone grave. “You need not remind me of the old tale.”
“…What?”
Ledger continues as though I hadn’t spoken, his voice dropping dramatically. “The legend of the Lost Ledger is as old as time… or ten years, give or take. I trust neither of you will fail me in catching and confining this apparition.”
Fresh stands abruptly, pleading. “Sir, we’ve already scavenged the entire building!”
Ledger spins on his hooves, his sunglasses sliding askew with the motion. “Celestia damn it! Don’t give me excuses, colt. I want answers! ”
Fresh slams his hooves on the desk, his expression intense. “Well, I want ice cream, but life doesn’t always give you a cone!”
Without missing a beat, Ledger grabs Fresh by the front of his jacket, locking eyes with him. “Then become the cone you need!”
“Yes, sir!” Fresh shouts, saluting as he stands to attention. “Come on, Drift.”
I watch in dumbfounded silence as Fresh charges out of the office, leaving me alone with Ledger. Slowly, I turn to face him, my expression a mix of disbelief and bewilderment.
“…What?”
Ledger adjusts his sunglasses and sits back in his chair, smiling serenely. “Good talk, Mr. Catcher. Dismissed.”
Currently, Fresh and I are stalking down the halls of the Archives—or rather, he is stalking, crouching low like some exaggerated predator, while I follow behind at a perfectly normal pace. My patience, already worn thin by the day’s antics, is now nearing its breaking point.
“Fresh, stop,” I snap.
The stallion freezes mid-step, turning to face me with his ever-present grin. “Something wrong, Drift?”
“Yes, there is,” I groan, my frustration spilling out in a heavy sigh. “You’ve been dragging me around for the better part of twenty minutes on this wild goose chase for a ghost that does not exist .”
He tilts his head, feigning innocence. “How do you know it doesn’t exist? Did you already catch it?”
“What? No. Enough of this.” I step forward, locking eyes with him to ensure I have his full attention. “There is no evidence—none—to suggest that a ghost is haunting this building. And even if, by some absurd chance, one was here, it would be the job of a Dispelling Crew to deal with it. Not us. Meanwhile, there’s a very real issue involving someone harassing Miss Belle Bottom.”
Fresh shakes his head dismissively. “Oh, I already know who did that.”
I stare at him, my tone flat. “…The ghost?”
He chuckles. “Nope. It was the stallion at the front desk.”
I raise an eyebrow, incredulous. “Miss Belle Bottom said it wasn’t him. He was standing in front of her the entire time.”
Fresh shrugs. “He was hiding his horn with an illusion spell.”
I squint at him, my skepticism growing. “And how exactly do you know this?”
“Easy. His mane is parted in the center, despite there being no horn visible. Only unicorns style their mane like that to accommodate their horn.”
I blink, processing his explanation. “…Then what are we doing here? We need to call the guard on that molester.”
Fresh waves a hoof, brushing off my urgency. “Already taken care of. While you were finishing up in the sorting area, I told Mr. Ledger what happened. He had a letter sent to notify the authorities.”
My mouth falls open. I stare at him, speechless for a moment, before shaking my head. My voice rises, sharper than I intend. “So the entire issue is already handled? Then what in Luna’s good name are we doing right now ? What was the point of the last twenty minutes?”
Fresh meets my frustration with the same unflappable smile he’s worn since the day we met. His response stops me cold.
“I wanted to spend some time with my best friend.”
The wind leaves my sails. The fire fueling my annoyance is snuffed out in an instant, replaced by a wave of shock and… something else. Warmth blooms in my chest, unbidden and unwelcome.
His best friend? The words repeat in my mind, their weight growing heavier with each pass. We’ve only known each other for a couple of weeks. We’re coworkers—nothing more. I want to deny it, to dismiss the statement as another one of his jokes, but the look on his face is sincere. There’s no trace of guile or jest. When he opens his eyes, I see nothing but honesty shining in their golden depths.
It hurts, and I know why.
After a moment, I take a steadying breath, forcing myself to think. “Fresh, why—”
My question is abruptly cut off as a cluster of scrolls falls from the shelves above us, hitting the floor with a muffled thump . Before I can react, a bone-chilling wail echoes down the corridor, freezing me in place.
We both look up. Floating above us is a translucent figure in the unmistakable shape of a mare. Her ethereal form drifts through the shelves, her hollow eyes fixed on us. She pauses, poking her head out from behind a row of scrolls, and releases a piercing scream that reverberates through the Archive before disappearing into the shadows.
I stare at the spot where the ghost vanished, my heart hammering in my chest. “Wait, there really is a ghost!?”
“Oh shit.”
Author's Note
【 https://linktr.ee/thebestfrog
