Miridion Keeper of the Chapters of Time in a Magical Library

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Deep within the forgotten library of Aerenthos, beyond all star maps and beneath the dream layers of the ether, walked a guardian of gears and light: Miridion. She was not of flesh, not of blood. Her mind ticked to the rhythm of ancient clocks, and within her revolved a golden mechanism that seemed to preserve time itself. Her skin was made of metal plates engraved with Roman numerals and tiny runes, and her eyes sparkled like crystals reflecting entire constellations. No one knew who had built her. Some said a lonely chronomancer; others whispered of a league of forgotten worldweavers. Still others believed she was a thought someone once forgot to forget—and who therefore transformed into a being of mechanics and memory. But everyone agreed: Miridion was the last of her kind—a librarian who guarded not just books, but memories, possibilities, unfinished stories. Between the countless shelves, where candles glowed like whispered thoughts, floated pages that had never been written. The air smelled of old paper, of time, and a hint of hope. When the wind lost itself among the shelves, it sounded like the turning of an invisible chapter. Miridion moved silently through the hall, gears whirring softly at the back of her neck. When she opened her hand, a beam of glowing golden knowledge unfolded from it—a fragment of a story waiting to be read. The books whispered to her. Some wept. Some laughed. Some told of things that had not yet happened. Some called out to their authors, others had remained silent for centuries. And if a visitor ever wandered into this library—a wanderer from the twilight of time, a dreamer fleeing oblivion—Miridion chose carefully: She handed over a book that contained precisely the story the visitor needed. Not the one they wanted. For Miridion understood the library's deep secret: Books don't just read people. Books read us. They sense our unspoken questions, hear our innermost whispers, and they wait—patiently, silently—for the right moment to open. It had been said that she herself had once been a chapter—too bold, too beautiful, too true—to be written. And so she had built herself a shell of gears, of light and memory, to preserve all the other stories that might have ended like her. So she stands there still, amid flickering sparks and whirring gears, amid endless shelves: Miridion, the robot librarian, whose heart is time. Their shadows fall like clock hands over the marble silence, and sometimes – when all is silent – one hears from the depths the faint ticking of a chapter yet undiscovered.