Ash in the Sleeve

The elders called Lin to the hall of the eight seals. Eight columns, eight open chests, eight perfect copies. The ninth lectern was empty on purpose.

“You have written too much,” said the eldest. “The ash must not leave the notebook.”

Lin looked at his sleeve. There was a gray trace, fine as a hair. When he tried to brush it off, the trace wrote in the air the character the copy had completed. Two disciples took a step back. The librarian did not.

“The seal has already chosen a hand,” he said. “Punish it now and you ask the name to look for another.”

The eldest was quiet so long that the lamp burned down a finger’s width. At last she pointed at the empty lectern. “Then let it sleep there. And let no one, except that hand, go past the fourth page.”