The Post

The Post is older than the record. It was keeping accounts before accounts were kept, and it has never once introduced itself.

It maintains agents. How many, and where, is not a matter for this page. They do not know one another. They travel by the roads available to their century, and they write down what reaches them — the legend at the well, the rumour on the crossing, the thing the village will only name at noon.

What the world calls folklore, the Post calls a field report, mis-transcribed. Its work is the correction of the record: one account at a time, filed from wherever the seam runs thin, and passed on.

Twelve dispatches are released each year. When an edition seals, it does not reopen. The Post does not reprint; the Post remembers.

It does not recruit. It notices.

— sealed under the raven