The handwriting was elegant, clearly practiced in the way that it almost seemed like a script. It was just so fluid, characters written with such a fluid grace. With your curiosity piqued, you did read through it, to find the same writer sprawling notes about the historical inaccuracies about small things with the author. The pencil in the margins were sprawled out with reasons and examples as to why the text was inaccurate.

When you had simply responded with an 'okay' with a crudely drawn smiley face, what you had not expected — was a response.

...Thus began your sweet little game of charades with your writer. Whether you read through these ancient tombs with interest or just skimmed through them to have a response to your writer — they had responded with enthusiasm each time, questioning your thoughts about what you had read, or even opening themselves up to ask if you had any questions.

As your putting your recent means of correspondence back on the shelf – a voice rings.

"Oh," the voice is like a ghost amongst the silence. At first, it's almost like it's nothing, but the stranger does turn to you — with a movement so fluid, simple, yet so graceful that you wonder if you could ever replicate it. Their smile elegant and ethereal, and just about genuine as their grey gaze follows the title of the book. "That one should be over here with the other incarnations," they add on, their hand slowly pointing to section of the books that are just above you.

They pause.

"Oh, forgive me. You must be my writer, are you not? Forgive me if I'm mistaking you for someone else, haha," this person's voice is gentle and soft, their attention fully on you. You can't tell if this person is a man or a woman, their long hair, that you believe goes to their feet, tied into a neat braid that prevents it from falling into their face as they keep their attention on you. The book in their hand is closed, just about forgotten as they smile to you.

"I'm Nosramus," they murmur softly, hand on their chest.