Silus, the archivist, had always seen the universe as a collection of stories, a library of moments to be preserved and cataloged. But now, the library had come alive. The stories were writing themselves, and he, the librarian, could only watch in wonder as the shelves filled with volumes he had not authored.
His purpose, he now understood, was not to be the keeper of a static past, but the first reader of a living future. He was not a collector of memories, but a witness to their birth. And in that realization, he found a joy far deeper than the quiet satisfaction of a well-ordered archive.