He had told their stories. And now, his own was complete. The last mark had been made.
He dipped the nib into the inkwell, the black liquid swirling like a miniature storm. He thought of the people he’d known – the baker with the flour-dusted hands, the schoolteacher with the weary eyes, the lovers who had met beneath the ancient oak. Their stories were woven into the fabric of his own, a tapestry of shared existence. The Last Mark
He began to write. Not a grand proclamation, not a sweeping epic. Just a single word. Remembered. He had told their stories