I divide most people in the world into two categories: Those who do not read, for whatever reason they may choose, and those who do. The former may be stretched for time or they may simply dislike doing so, it doesn't matter. The latter may be forced into it or they may genuinely enjoy the words they are constantly consuming. On the whole, they look for quantity over quality and are therefore none of my concern.

But every so often, one has the good fortune to happen across a reader who executes their duty with utmost care. They are my good friends, those readers, although they do not know me. For those blissful hours that my wards carry out their tasks under the close scrutiny of those sharp eyes, I am content. If one pays careful attention to the background of my wards, one may discover the few names of those who have acquired my trust. The names I have crafted for them, for their true ones I know not. There they are immortalized, until my wards fade from Memory.

It can be such taxing work, and the constant upkeep has certainly taken its toll on me. No longer am I alive, then: I have long since transcended the mortal realm. I no longer walk among Men.

That all can end for a moment, however, just a short time compared to the hours of milling aimlessly between displays. The time is well known, as is the alert: "Beware, all ye who enter here!"

It is not the most welcoming introduction, I admit. Yet I cannot take credit or blame for the words penned here, for I am merely the caretaker. I simply guard my wards into eternity.

This reader is a more careful one, though not to the caliber that merits veritable immortality. The story continues as per usual, with the hero's valiant battle, the sage's impartial wisdom, the soldier's lover being found at long last. All goes quite smoothly. My wards never tire of being locked within their endless cycle, so why should I?

All of the foreshadowing in the world could not prepare me for the events on page three hundred and ninety-four, however.

It is all very routine, this tragic scene. Though I've directed it time after time, I can't help but feel an uncanny melancholy as the crushed violet falls from the soldier's dead hand.

The symbolism is duly noted by the reader. I find it refreshing after the dozens of times it has been skipped over by unwary readers of the first and second categories. Then, as the reader's gaze meanders to the bottom of the page, everything goes dreadfully wrong.

"I know you, don't I."

My wards freeze immediately at the unwarranted words. I can only remain here, shell-shocked. As the jester would put it, I have been thrown for a loop.

This should not be possible. The words were put here years ago; they should never be changed. Not unless-

Unless...

But it's simply not possible. We all felt it when the Master departed. Our once flexible world solidified so suddenly, the current Reader had to backtrack a page. Now all that is left is the occasional liberty with instructions - a dog sniffing on the right side of the road as opposed to the left, and my recreational re-naming. Words do not simply materialize after the Master leaves.

Oh, sweet Bronte, what is happening?

"I think I do know you."

I urge my wards to move. The lover jolt into action, drawing her hands to her chest as the story dictates. Suddenly she stops again.

"No, no, it's you. There, in the margins. Not Cynthia, although I'm totally crying right now. Sir Caretaker. I can't see your face."

I am completely and utterly at a loss. "I do not show my face, for a face I do not have," I reply rather cryptically.

"Ohmigosh you talked-" The voice cuts off.

My voice has been left unused for endless cycles. I heard it, however, the papery catch as I responded to the interloper with the words I draw from ever corner of the page. I am not entirely sure if I am capable of feeling irritation, but if I am, then I am livid.

The story continues without much ado, although I sense the Reader is less invested in my wards and more so in myself. The taunting words hide at every page number, in every margin.

I know you, don't I.

It isn't so much the thought of being known by a Reader that intrigues me so much as their method of communicating this fact. When I walked in the world of Men I was known, if not well. It shouldn't surprise me to discover that a compatriot recognizes me among my wards, however well I may be hidden. Yet they should not be able to convey this information to me. I shall never know if I am identified - it is part of my contract, part of my curse.

The story is drawing to a close. I direct the final scene, drawing out the bittersweet moments to practiced perfection.

"Wherever you are, I will search there," comes the mournful oath, and then the term is completed.

My wards linger on their respective stages for just a moment before they are off, off to find their happiest moments and inhabit them to their fullest. I am left not quite alone.

"Do not be so hasty to close the cover," I warn.

"So I'm not going crazy, then."

"To be frank, dear Reader, none have ever approached me before, much less referred to me as 'Sir'. You must believe that it can be quite the unnerving experience for both parties."

I can practically hear the Reader blink in consternation. "Would you prefer to be called Mistress Caretaker?"

"Whatever suits your fancy, dear Reader." It seems I can experience irritation after all. Moreover, I can convey sarcasm. Interesting. I shall have to experiment with this in the future.

"Well, I've got a few questions then, Sir Caretaker."

"Don't we all."

"Well, yeah. Like with Cynthia, what does she-"

Oh, here we go again! This is the precise reason I left the world of Men! Always prying, looking for a way 'round the mandates of Logic. "I will not answer questions pertaining to the nature of the book," I reply tersely. "To do so would be to violate my contract."

"And we wouldn't want that, now would we."

"It would certainly destroy any hopes built by my wards. To put it simply, they end where the story ends. They know nothing before, and nothing after, and see it as their duty never to strive to find out. It would render their existence rather pointless, for there would always be a greener paradise past story's end."

There is silence for a while. "That's kind of deep, you know that? Like they're your slaves or something. Yeah, I know you're gonna spring in now with wonderful tidbits of poetry that explain life and stuff, but you can hold those for now. It's just... weird."

I amend my approach slowly. "I do have a question for you, however."

"Okay. Shoot."

"How is it that you are able to communicate with me? This has never happened since I left the world of Men."

"Uh... I dunno. I was just reading like normal, and crying and stuff, and I saw you standing there in the margins, like a conductor."

I was not under the impression that I am in possession of a visible form! "And, pray, why did you choose to speak to me?"

"Well, I thought I knew you is all. You looked familiar. And kind of lonely, even though I couldn't see your face. I didn't want for you to be lonely."

I don't know what to say, because nothing of the sort has ever occurred before. Not even in the land of Men was I sympathized with. "I have one more question. Then you may leave, close the cover and live your life however you will."

"Oh, I'm definitely coming back, I can tell you that for sure."

"Very well. What is your name?"