When the Stories Began Worrying About Humanity
Prologue
The invitation itself arrived strangely.
No seal.
No return address.
No signature.
Only a single sentence written in careful dark ink:
“The conversations have grown too shallow.
Please gather the others.”
No one later agreed who sent it.
The Cat Without a Hat claimed it appeared already filed correctly inside the archive drawer labeled:
Urgent but Predictable.
Bob Shellwood insisted it probably came from “some emotionally exhausted librarian with trust issues.”
Slay Pendragon maintained the handwriting contained:
“aggressive semicolon energy.”
No consensus emerged.
This was considered a promising beginning.
The meeting took place far from notifications.
That had been Sean O’Cleary’s condition.
“If we’re discussing the survival of human conversation,”
he said,
“we ought not do it while twelve devices scream for attention like caffeinated goblins.”
No one argued.
Not even Slay.
Though he did attempt to classify smartphones as:
“portable distraction necromancy.”
The others allowed this.
The table itself was enormous.
Old wood.
Uneven in places.
Marked by time rather than polished against it.
A fire crackled nearby.
Real fire.
Not simulated ambience.
Not digital projection.
Not algorithmically enhanced coziness.
Ashen Graves approved silently.
This was considered high praise.
Outside, rain moved softly across dark hills.
Inside:
stories gathered.
Not merely characters.
Not personas.
Not brands.
Perspectives.
Ways of understanding humanity that had survived long enough to require conversation with one another.
Dr. John Elcik arrived first carrying notebooks.
Naturally.
Not because he intended to control the discussion, but because someone eventually needed to remember what was actually said rather than what people later felt had been said.
Civilizations, he had learned, often collapsed between those two versions.
Dr. Jack Ivy entered quietly enough that half the room failed to notice initially.
He removed his coat carefully, studied the structure of the room for several moments, then chose the chair positioned neither centrally nor defensively.
The Cat noticed this immediately.
The Cat notices everything immediately.
It is exhausting for everyone involved.
Father Goose arrived third.
Technically fourth.
But he counted entrances emotionally rather than chronologically.
He wore a weathered waistcoat and the expression of someone fully prepared to forgive history for misunderstanding him again.
Behind him came:
- rain,
- faint accordion music,
- and at least three entirely unverified rumors.
Sean O’Cleary entered carrying bread, tea, and the calm certainty that no meaningful human gathering should begin hungry.
This immediately made him the most psychologically stable person present.
A low bar, admittedly.
Bob Shellwood arrived muttering about parking, passwords, and “the emotional instability of modern furniture assembly instructions.”
No one asked for clarification.
Experience had taught them not to.
Slay Pendragon entered dramatically despite no one opening the door theatrically enough to justify it.
A minor dragon-shaped scorch mark appeared briefly near the doorway.
Slay blamed metaphorical turbulence.
Dr. Ivy looked unconvinced.
Finally:
Ashen Graves arrived last.
Not ominously.
Merely quietly.
Like someone accustomed to walking through worlds after the noise ended.
The room itself seemed to lower its voice slightly in response.
Even Father Goose stopped adjusting his cuffs.
Then came the final arrival.
Soft paws across old wood.
The subtle sound of papers already mentally reorganizing themselves.
The Cat leapt lightly onto the empty chair at the head of the table, surveyed the gathering, and flicked her tail once.
The fire settled.
The rain continued softly beyond the windows.
No one spoke immediately.
Which, in itself, felt increasingly ancient.
At last, Sean O’Cleary poured tea into the waiting cups and asked the question none of them had fully wanted to say aloud:
“So then…
what exactly is it we’re trying to save?” ☘️🔥📚