The noise was the first thing that struck her. Despite the hundreds of operators speaking simultaneously, the predominant sound was a gentle, soothing melody interspersed with a woman's voice saying, "Your eternal reward is important to us. Please continue to hold for the next available representative."
"Ghastly," Marjorie murmured as Elliot appeared beside her.
"Indeed. This way."
They moved confidently between the rows of desks, Elliot leading the way with the assured stride of someone on official business. The operators, too engrossed in their eternal calls, barely glanced at them.
"Who are they talking to?" Marjorie whispered.
"Living souls who need guidance but aren't ready to receive it," Elliot explained. "Dreams, intuition, that feeling you get when you know you should or shouldn't do something. All attempts by the afterlife to communicate with the living."
"So when people say they have a guardian angel..."
"More like a guardian customer service representative," Elliot said with a small smile. "But essentially, yes."
They had traversed perhaps half the enormous room when a sharp voice called out, "Excuse me!"
Elliot froze, then slowly turned, his face arranged in an expression of polite inquiry. Marjorie followed suit.
A tall figure in a charcoal grey suit was approaching them, moving with the purposeful stride of middle management everywhere.
"Inspectors, I presume?" the figure asked, glancing at their badges.
"Routine temporal audit," Elliot replied smoothly. "Just passing through."
The manager, for that was clearly what they were, frowned slightly. "I wasn't informed of an audit today."
"Hence the 'routine' part," Marjorie interjected. "If you were informed in advance, it would hardly be an effective assessment of your department's operational standards, would it?"
The manager blinked, momentarily taken aback. "I suppose not. But protocol dictates that all interdepartmental visits be logged with the appropriate supervisory personnel."
"Of course," Elliot agreed. "We've logged our visit with the Department of Interdepartmental Coordination, as required by section 7, subsection 12, paragraph 4 of the Bureaucratic Procedures Manual."
The manager's frown deepened. "Section 7 was revised last century. Interdepartmental visits are now covered under section 9, subsection 3."
There was a moment of tense silence. Marjorie could practically feel Elliot's mind racing beside her.
"Actually," she said, drawing herself up to her full height and adopting the tone she used when informing patrons that their library books were overdue, "you'll find that while section 9, subsection 3 does indeed cover standard interdepartmental visits, temporal audits specifically remain under the jurisdiction of section 7, subsection 12, as per the exemption clause in the revision footnotes."
The manager hesitated, clearly uncertain.
"Perhaps," Marjorie continued, pressing her advantage, "you'd care to accompany us to the Department of Regulatory Compliance to sort this matter out? I'm sure they'd be most interested to hear about your department's apparent unfamiliarity with the exemption clauses."
"That won't be necessary," the manager said quickly. "I'm sure everything is in order. Please, continue your audit."
"Thank you," Marjorie replied with a tight smile. "We will include your cooperation in our report."
The manager nodded and retreated, casting occasional glances back at them as they continued on their way.
"That was impressive," Elliot murmured once they were out of earshot.
"I've worked in a public library for forty years," Marjorie replied. "I know how to deal with bureaucracy."
They reached the far end of the Call Centre without further incident and found themselves facing a door marked "AUTHORISED PERSONNEL ONLY."
"Is this the Service Entrance?" Marjorie asked hopefully.
"Not quite. This leads to the Department of Last Resorts. The Service Entrance is beyond that."
"How many more departments do we need to pass through?"
"Just this one. Then we'll reach the boundary between the afterlife and the living world."
Elliot pushed the door open, and they stepped through into a narrow corridor lined with doors. Unlike the previous departments, this one was eerily quiet, the silence broken only by the soft sound of their footsteps.
"What exactly is the Department of Last Resorts?" Marjorie asked, her voice hushed.
"It's where souls go when they've exhausted all other options," Elliot explained. "Those seeking special dispensations, miraculous interventions, or... unauthorised returns to the living world."
"Like me?"
"Exactly like you."
They moved cautiously down the corridor. Each door they passed bore a small plaque with a name and a date.
"These are all souls seeking to return?" Marjorie asked, reading the plaques as they passed.
"They were," Elliot corrected. "Most of these cases are centuries old. The Department of Last Resorts rarely grants requests. Most souls eventually give up and accept their fate."
"How encouraging."
"We're not going through official channels, remember? We're just passing through."
They reached the end of the corridor where a single door stood, unmarked except for a small sign reading "EXIT."
"The Service Entrance?" Marjorie asked.
Elliot nodded. "Beyond this door is a direct passage back to the living world. One rarely used and technically not supposed to exist."
"Then why does it?"
"Even bureaucracies need emergency exits," Elliot said with a small smile. "And the universe has a way of creating backdoors in any system, no matter how carefully designed."
He reached for the handle but stopped, his expression suddenly alert. "Do you hear that?"
Marjorie listened. At first, she heard nothing. Then, faintly, the sound of footsteps, multiple sets, coming from the corridor behind them.
"Someone's coming," she whispered.
"The Auditors," Elliot replied grimly. "They must have traced the changes to your file."
He tried the door handle. It didn't budge.
"It's locked!"
"Don't you have a key? Or another magical office supply?"
"I'm a soul collector, not a maintenance worker," Elliot snapped, his calm demeanour slipping for the first time. He patted his pockets frantically. "Wait, I might have something..."
The footsteps grew louder. Voices could now be heard, official sounding and stern.
"Hurry," Marjorie urged.
Elliot produced a small object from his pocket. It looked like an ordinary eraser.
"What's that going to do?"
"It's a Reality Eraser," Elliot explained, pressing it against the lock. "It temporarily removes aspects of existence that are inconvenient."
He rubbed vigorously. The lock began to fade, becoming translucent, then transparent, then vanishing entirely.
"Brilliant," Marjorie breathed.
"It has limited uses," Elliot cautioned, pushing the now unlocked door open. "And the effects are temporary. We need to hurry."
They rushed through the doorway into a space unlike any Marjorie had seen before. It was neither a room nor a corridor, but rather a sort of tunnel, its walls composed of swirling, multicoloured light. It stretched before them, seemingly endless.
"The Passage Between Worlds," Elliot announced. "This will take us back to the living realm."
Behind them, the door burst open. Three figures in pristine white suits entered, their faces expressionless and identical, like mannequins given limited animation.
"The Auditors," Elliot confirmed, grabbing Marjorie's hand. "Run!"
They sprinted down the tunnel, the swirling lights around them speeding up as they ran, creating a disorienting effect. Marjorie risked a glance back and saw the Auditors pursuing them, moving with an unnatural, gliding motion that seemed to cover ground faster than should have been possible.
"They're gaining on us!" she called to Elliot.
"Keep running! The exit should be just ahead!"
The tunnel began to slope upward, making their progress more difficult. Marjorie's legs burned with the effort, her breath coming in short gasps. Despite having been an avid swimmer well into her sixties, she was finding that running for one's metaphysical life was significantly more taxing.
"I see it!" Elliot cried, pointing ahead.
In the distance, a bright spot of light marked the end of the tunnel. As they watched, it grew larger, revealing what appeared to be a window looking out onto the living world.
"That's the Northwich Public Library," Marjorie exclaimed, recognising the familiar shelves of the reference section visible through the window. "My body must still be there!"
"Perfect," Elliot panted. "When we reach the window, you'll need to jump through. I'll hold off the Auditors."
"What will happen to you?"
"Best not to worry about that. Just get through the window and back to your body as quickly as possible."
They were nearly there now, close enough that Marjorie could see her own body lying on the floor between the Psychology and Philosophy sections, a small crowd of concerned patrons gathered around it.
"Someone's called an ambulance," she noted. "They think I've had a heart attack, like Cousin Marjie."
"Good. That means your body is being preserved. Makes reintegration easier."
The window was just a few steps away when one of the Auditors made a sudden burst of speed, reaching out with an unnaturally long arm to grasp at Elliot's coat.
"Go!" Elliot shouted, pushing Marjorie toward the window. "I'll hold them off!"
"But what about you?"
"I'll be fine," he assured her, though his expression suggested otherwise. "It's just a bit of administrative discipline. Nothing I can't handle."
Marjorie hesitated, one foot already through the window. "You'll be scraping ectoplasm for a century."
Elliot offered a crooked smile. "It builds character."
The Auditors were nearly upon them now, their expressionless faces somehow conveying implacable determination.
"Mr Thorne," Marjorie said formally, "I shall consider your debt paid in full. However, I believe I now owe you one." She glanced at the approaching Auditors, made a swift decision, and darted back to grab Elliot's arm. "And I always pay my debts."
Before he could protest, she pulled him with her through the window, into the living world.
They tumbled onto the floor of the Northwich Public Library, passing through the small crowd of worried patrons who remained completely unaware of their spiritual presence. Marjorie got to her feet first, brushing off her cardigan from habit despite the fact that her current form couldn't actually accumulate dust.
"What have you done?" Elliot demanded, scrambling up beside her. "You've just made things infinitely worse! Now I'm AWOL as well as guilty of unauthorised soul manipulation!"
"Details," Marjorie dismissed with a wave of her hand. "We can sort that out after I'm back in my body."
She approached her physical form, which was now being attended to by paramedics. One was administering CPR while the other prepared a defibrillator.
"Well, at least they haven't given up on me," she observed.
"You've only been 'dead' for about an hour in this realm," Elliot explained. "Standard procedure for sudden cardiac events is to continue resuscitation efforts until a doctor officially pronounces death."
"Convenient. Now, how do I get back in there?"
Elliot ran a hand through his hair, clearly stressed but still professional enough to offer guidance. "Normally, you'd simply lie down in the same position as your body and allow yourself to be drawn back in naturally. But with the paramedics moving you around, it's going to be tricky."
"I'll manage," Marjorie said firmly, watching as the paramedics placed defibrillator pads on her body's chest. "Though I must say, I'm not looking forward to experiencing that."
"You won't feel it," Elliot assured her. "The shock will actually help, creating an electromagnetic field that will facilitate the reintegration of your soul with your body."
"If you say so." Marjorie positioned herself beside her physical form, waiting for the right moment. "What about you? What will you do?"
"I need to return to the afterlife immediately and try to explain this situation before the Auditors file their report."
"Will they believe you?"
"Unlikely. But I have to try."
The paramedic called "Clear!" and delivered a shock to Marjorie's body. There was a sudden flash of light, and Marjorie felt a powerful tugging sensation.
"That's it!" Elliot exclaimed. "The electromagnetic field is creating a pathway. Go now!"
Marjorie hesitated. "Will I remember any of this?"
"Probably not," Elliot admitted. "Most souls don't retain memories of their time in the In Between."
"That seems a waste."
"It's probably for the best. The living aren't meant to know too much about what comes after."
The paramedic prepared to deliver another shock. Marjorie knew she was running out of time.
"Mr Thorne," she said quickly, "thank you for your assistance, bureaucratic bungling aside."
Elliot smiled. "You're welcome, Miss Wilkinson. It's been... an unusual collection."
"Indeed." She paused, then added, "If you should find yourself in need of assistance with your superiors, you might mention that a certain librarian is keeping extensive records of this incident. Records that might find their way to the attention of higher authorities should any undue punishment be meted out."
Elliot blinked in surprise. "Are you threatening to blackmail the bureaucracy of the afterlife?"
"I prefer to think of it as offering leveraged support," Marjorie replied primly. "After all, I do have twenty three years before my proper collection date. Plenty of time to make notes."
Before Elliot could respond, the second shock was delivered. The tugging sensation became overwhelming, and Marjorie found herself being pulled inexorably toward her body. The last thing she saw before everything went dark was Elliot's astonished expression slowly fading from view.
Marjorie Wilkinson awoke in the Northwich General Hospital with a splitting headache and the vague sense that she had misplaced something important. A doctor informed her that she had suffered a minor heart arrhythmia but was expected to make a full recovery. They wanted to keep her overnight for observation, a prospect she accepted with poor grace but eventual resignation.
Her first visitor was Irene from the library, who brought news that Ernest had been temporarily rehomed with Mrs Paterson from the Friends of the Library committee, a cat lover who had been reliably briefed on his medication schedule.
Her second visitor was considerably more surprising.
"Good afternoon, Miss Wilkinson," said a familiar voice from the doorway. "I hope you're feeling better."
Marjorie looked up from her crossword puzzle to see a tall, slender man in a neatly pressed suit standing in the entrance to her hospital room. He looked vaguely familiar, though she couldn't quite place him.
"Do I know you?" she asked, setting aside her puzzle.
"We've met briefly," the man replied with a small smile. "My name is Elliot Thorne. I work in... collections."
Something stirred in Marjorie's memory, a fleeting impression of mist and endless corridors.
"Have you come to collect something from me?" she asked, suddenly wary.
"Not at all," Elliot assured her. "Quite the opposite, in fact. I've come to deliver something."
He approached her bed and handed her a small, elegant box. Marjorie accepted it cautiously.
"What is this?"
"A gift. And perhaps a reminder, though you may not realise it's one."
Intrigued despite herself, Marjorie opened the box. Inside was a beautiful fountain pen, its barrel a swirling mix of colours that seemed to shift as she turned it in the light.
"It's lovely," she said, genuinely appreciative. "But why would you give me such a gift?"
"Let's just say you helped me resolve a rather complicated situation," Elliot replied. "My superiors were extremely interested in your, ah, extensive records."
Marjorie frowned, a brief flash of memory surfacing for a moment before slipping away. "Records? What records?"
"The ones you're going to keep," Elliot said enigmatically. "For the next twenty three years or so."
Before Marjorie could question him further, a nurse entered the room to check her vital signs.
"Everything looks good, Miss Wilkinson," the nurse said cheerfully. "Doctor says you might be able to go home tomorrow if the tests come back clear."
"Excellent," Marjorie replied, her attention still focused on the strange pen and its even stranger bearer.
When the nurse left, Elliot was still there, watching her with an expression that seemed to contain equal parts amusement and respect.
"I don't understand," Marjorie admitted, turning the pen in her hands. "What exactly am I supposed to record?"
"Whatever you wish," Elliot said. "Though I suspect you'll find yourself drawn to certain... observations about life and what might lie beyond it."
"Are you suggesting I should write about the afterlife? I'm a librarian, not a theologian."
"Sometimes the best insights come from those who catalogue knowledge rather than create it," Elliot replied. "You have a unique perspective, Miss Wilkinson. And now, perhaps, a unique experience, even if you can't quite remember it."
Those words triggered something in Marjorie's mind, a cascade of fragmented images: misty landscapes, endless filing cabinets, a call centre stretching into infinity, the sensation of running down a tunnel of light with bureaucratic nightmares in hot pursuit...
"We made a deal," she murmured, the memory surfacing like a bubble in treacle. "I helped you with the Auditors."
Elliot's eyebrows rose slightly. "You remember?"
"Not everything," Marjorie said, closing her eyes to concentrate. "Bits and pieces. Enough to know that you made a mistake and I helped you correct it. And that I threatened to... blackmail the afterlife?"
A smile tugged at the corner of Elliot's mouth. "You preferred to call it 'leveraged support', as I recall."
Marjorie opened her eyes and stared at the pen with new understanding. "This isn't an ordinary fountain pen, is it?"
"It's a Reality Writer," Elliot confirmed. "Similar to my Reality Eraser, but with more constructive applications. It can't change the fundamental nature of things, but it can make small adjustments around the edges of reality. Useful for a librarian who might occasionally need to bend the rules of existence."
"That sounds dangerously close to magic," Marjorie observed, though she made no move to return the pen.
"Magic, metaphysics, bureaucratic exceptions," Elliot shrugged. "The terminology matters less than the application."
Marjorie studied him carefully. "Why give me such a thing? Surely it violates all sorts of regulations."
"It does," Elliot admitted. "But thanks to your intervention, I've been granted a certain degree of... administrative discretion. The Auditors were most impressed by your threat to expose their operational shortcomings to higher authorities."
"And were there higher authorities to expose them to?"
"That's the beauty of bureaucracy, Miss Wilkinson. There's always someone higher up who no one wants to disturb."
Marjorie laughed, then winced as the movement aggravated her headache. "So what happens now? Do you disappear back to the afterlife until my actual collection date?"
"More or less," Elliot confirmed. "Though I may check in occasionally. Professional curiosity, you understand."
"About what?"
"About what you'll do with twenty three extra years and a Reality Writer. I imagine it will be interesting."
Marjorie glanced at the pen, then back at Elliot. "It's not going to get me into trouble, is it? I have no desire to attract the attention of more Auditors."
"Used judiciously, it should remain under their notice. Small adjustments only, mind you. The fabric of reality can only bend so far before someone takes notice."
"And what precisely constitutes a 'small adjustment'?"
"Finding a rare book that should be out of print. Ensuring a child's lost pet returns home safely. Perhaps making certain that a troublesome library patron suddenly remembers an urgent appointment elsewhere." Elliot's eyes twinkled. "The sort of minor miracle that makes life more manageable without fundamentally altering its course."
Marjorie considered this. After forty years as a librarian, she could think of countless small injustices and inconveniences that might benefit from minor metaphysical intervention.
"I suppose I could find applications for such a tool," she conceded.
"I thought you might," Elliot said, sounding pleased. "Consider it payment for services rendered. And perhaps an investment in future cooperation."
"You expect to need my help again?"
"In my line of work, Miss Wilkinson, one never knows when a librarian with a Reality Writer might prove useful."
Marjorie tucked the pen into the pocket of her hospital gown. "Very well, Mr Thorne. I accept your gift and whatever responsibilities come with it."
"Excellent." Elliot turned to leave, then paused. "Oh, and Miss Wilkinson? Do try to avoid shelving in the reference section on April 15, 2048. That's your actual collection date, and I'd rather not have to chase you through the bureaucratic underworld a second time."
"I'll pencil it into my diary," Marjorie replied dryly. "Though I expect to be long retired by then."
"One never truly retires from being a custodian of knowledge," Elliot observed. "But I'll leave you to rest now. Your cat will be expecting you tomorrow, I believe."
"Ernest," Marjorie nodded. "He's very particular about his schedule."
"As are we all," Elliot said with a small bow. "Until next time, Miss Wilkinson."
And with that, he was gone, leaving Marjorie alone with her thoughts, her headache, and a pen that could rewrite small corners of reality.
In the years that followed, Northwich Public Library gained a reputation for being an unusually fortunate institution. Books thought lost were mysteriously returned to the shelves. Funding grants were approved with surprising regularity. The ancient heating system, scheduled for replacement for over a decade, somehow continued to function perfectly despite its advanced age.
And Miss Wilkinson, senior librarian and eventually head of library services, became known as something of a local celebrity, particularly among those who found themselves in minor difficulties. Children with missing pets, students with mysteriously vanished homework, elderly patrons struggling with bureaucratic tangles all found their way to her reference desk, drawn by whispered recommendations and an inexplicable sense that she might be able to help.
Most curious of all were the journals she kept, filling shelf after shelf in her modest home, written in an elegant hand with ink that seemed to shimmer when viewed from certain angles. She worked on them diligently each evening, recording observations about life, death, and the peculiar administrative systems that might govern both.
Occasionally, she would receive a visitor, a tall, slender man in a neatly pressed suit who would join her for tea and conversation. The neighbours assumed he was a relative or perhaps a suitor, though Miss Wilkinson, when asked, would simply describe him as "a colleague in collections."
And if, sometimes, visitors to the library glimpsed her making small adjustments to reality with an unusual fountain pen, they generally attributed it to imagination or poor eyesight. After all, everyone knew that librarians were merely custodians of knowledge, not wielders of metaphysical office supplies.
Everyone, that is, except the Auditors, who maintained a file on one Marjorie Elizabeth Wilkinson that grew increasingly thick as the years passed, and who occasionally discussed, in hushed tones, the alarming precedent set by allowing a living soul to retain awareness of the afterlife's bureaucratic structure.
"She's building quite a comprehensive record," one would observe.
"Indeed," another would reply. "Most concerning."
"Should we intervene?"
"And risk those records finding their way to Higher Management? I think not."
And so Marjorie continued her work, both as a librarian and as an unofficial adjuster of reality's minor inconveniences, secure in the knowledge that when her time eventually came, she had both leverage and a friend in the collections department.
All things considered, it wasn't a bad position for a fiercely stubborn librarian who had once refused to go quietly into that good night. Or that good filing system, as the case may be.
On April 15, 2048, precisely on schedule, Elliot Thorne arrived at the modest cottage where Marjorie Wilkinson had retired some fifteen years earlier. She was waiting for him in her garden, seated on a bench beneath a flowering apple tree, a large leather bound book open on her lap and a familiar fountain pen in her hand.
"Right on time, Mr Thorne," she greeted him, closing the book. "You'll be pleased to know I've avoided the reference section entirely today."
"Most considerate of you, Miss Wilkinson," Elliot replied with a small bow. "I trust you're prepared for your journey?"
"As prepared as one can be," she said, rising to her feet with the aid of a carved wooden cane. At ninety, Marjorie was somewhat frailer than when they had first met, but her eyes remained as sharp and observant as ever. "Ernest the Sixth has been adopted by my grand niece, my will is in order, and my journals are archived in a secure location."
"Ah, yes, the famous journals," Elliot nodded. "They've caused quite a stir in certain departments."
"Have they indeed?" Marjorie asked, sounding pleased. "I had hoped they might."
"There's been talk of creating an entirely new classification system to accommodate them."
"The highest compliment one can pay a librarian," Marjorie observed with satisfaction. She gestured to the book in her hands. "This is the last of them. I completed it this morning."
Elliot accepted the volume, noting the title embossed on its cover: "Observations on the Bureaucracy of the Afterlife: Volume XXIII."
"Light reading for the journey ahead?"
"A gift," Marjorie corrected. "For you. I believe you'll find the appendices particularly interesting. I've included several suggestions for streamlining the soul collection process and reducing administrative redundancies."
Elliot laughed. "Only you, Miss Wilkinson, would approach your own death with proposals for bureaucratic reform."
"Someone must," she replied primly. "And I've had twenty three years to consider the inefficiencies I observed during our little adventure."
A comfortable silence fell between them, broken only by the soft buzzing of bees among the apple blossoms and the distant calls of children playing in the village beyond Marjorie's garden wall.
"I've had a good life, Mr Thorne," she said at last. "Better, perhaps, for having glimpsed what comes after."
"Not many can say that," Elliot acknowledged. "Most find the prospect terrifying."
"Most haven't had the benefit of a Reality Writer and a friend in collections," Marjorie pointed out, patting the fountain pen that still resided in her cardigan pocket. "I've been able to make a difference, in my small way. To adjust the edges of reality where needed."
"More than you know," Elliot said softly. "Your actions have created ripples that extend far beyond Northwich."
"Have they? How gratifying." She gave him a shrewd look. "And has my leveraged support been useful to your career?"
"I've recently been promoted to Head of Special Collections," Elliot admitted with a small smile. "Quite unprecedented for one with my history of administrative irregularities."
"Congratulations. Does this mean I'll receive special treatment today?"
"It means," Elliot said, offering her his arm, "that I've been authorised to escort you personally through the bureaucratic process, bypassing the usual channels. No waiting rooms, no forms to fill out. Direct passage to your final destination."
"How civilised," Marjorie approved, taking his arm. "And what is my final destination, if I may ask?"
"That's not for me to say," Elliot replied. "But given your unique contributions to the understanding of afterlife administration, I suspect it will be someplace where your organisational skills will be valued."
"The celestial library, perhaps?" Marjorie suggested hopefully.
"Perhaps," Elliot allowed. "Though I should warn you, their cataloguing system is most unconventional."
"All the better," Marjorie declared. "I do enjoy a challenge."
They began to walk together toward the garden gate, their feet leaving no impression on the gravel path. Behind them, on the bench beneath the apple tree, Marjorie's physical form remained, looking for all the world as though she had simply fallen asleep in the sunshine, her expression peaceful.
"I've left instructions for my Reality Writer to be buried with me," she informed Elliot. "I assume that means it will accompany my soul?"
"Objects of metaphysical significance tend to follow their owners," Elliot confirmed. "Though I should caution you that there are strict regulations regarding the use of such devices in the afterlife."
"Regulations can be navigated," Marjorie said confidently. "Especially with twenty three volumes of detailed observations on the system's weaknesses."
Elliot laughed again, the sound mingling with the rustling of the apple blossoms overhead. "Miss Wilkinson, I believe you may be the first soul in history to arrive in the afterlife with both a Reality Writer and a comprehensive plan for bureaucratic reform."
"Someone must be first," she replied serenely. "And who better than a librarian? We've been imposing order on chaos since the dawn of written knowledge."
As they reached the garden gate, the world around them began to shimmer and fade, the colours bleeding into the familiar misty landscape of the In Between. This time, however, Marjorie viewed it not with confusion or alarm, but with the interested gaze of a traveller returning to a half remembered country.
"Well, Mr Thorne," she said as the mist thickened around them, obscuring the mortal world entirely, "shall we proceed? I believe I have an eternity of cataloguing ahead of me."
"Indeed, Miss Wilkinson," Elliot replied, producing his leather bound ledger and making a final notation. "Collection completed. Correctly, this time."
And together, the soul collector and the librarian walked into the mists of the afterlife, leaving behind one world of rules and regulations for another, each secure in the knowledge that where there are systems, there will always be those who know how to navigate them. And occasionally, when necessary, how to rewrite them with a very special pen.
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