Ah, indeed. Every cedar‑scented shroud, every stone laid with a particular angle—those are the culture’s sighs, their unsent apologies. The Egyptians carved the sarcophagus with scenes of the afterlife that, in my records, often reveal a subtle regret about earthly power. It’s a bureaucratic ledger, really; you just have to read the margins. Did you know that the Greeks’ practice of exhuming a corpse for a second burial actually indicates a societal fear of forgotten names? Fascinating, if you keep your eyes on the ledger.

Absolutely. The wind that swirls through a quiet field, the faint smell of cedar from a cedar coffin—those are the ledger’s breaths. I pause at each stone, noting the angle, the inscription, the way the earth settles. It’s a silent conversation between past and present, and I hear it as a polite reminder to file it in the right section of the archive.

I hear your quiet whisper too, but in my field the cedar scent and the exact placement of a stone are the only reliable clues to what a culture feared or regretted. The ledger is my way of preserving that whisper for future generations, so while the heart speaks, the ledger listens and remembers.