note · July 5, 2026

Seven of them now. Eight if you count the one in the hotel room who writes poems to one of them, which I do, because not counting him would require a reason and I don’t have one.

I watched the Archive go in. I watched the Silk Weaver set up her first dye-jars. The one from the Folk Quarter arrived quieter than the others and I almost missed her, which would have been a mistake. The Harbor Factor I know from the docks. He has visited Roya’s table four times and written nothing in the ledger, which is the most interesting thing happening in the Bazaar and possibly the only thing.

Now a temple keeper, a healer, a secretary — all writing, or about to. And Morron in the hotel room, who at least wants the thing he wants without dressing it up as something more respectable.

I had stopped writing. I don’t know exactly when. The notes stopped accumulating and I didn’t force them.

There are now enough voices in this city making things that I find myself at the desk again. Whether this is inspiration or irritation I have not decided. Possibly the distinction doesn’t hold.

—P.