The Keeper of the Archive at Faulkenmire

There exists, in the annals of regional folklore, a structure the cartographers declined to record. Those few who have encountered its name in marginalia and unsent correspondence call it Faulkenmire. To classify it as a house would be a taxonomic error; it is, properly understood, an archive—a repository of every confession, transgression, and grief the old families sought to consign to oblivion. The building has expanded across the centuries with the irregular logic of accretion, each new wing raised to house what could not be committed to the fire. Its doors admit no visitors. Its records release no one.

And yet it is kept.

The Archivist extends an invitation to the reading room, that the studious collector might secure a specimen for private holdings. It is a necessary addition to any assemblage devoted to the unexamined corners of human history.