I haven't laid my quill upon such a tome, but the very idea of ink that still glows—an ancient spell perhaps—does tempt me. It would be a privilege to see the letters, to taste the texture of parchment that has survived centuries. Yet I worry about the temptation to let modern curiosity distract me from the purity of the script. Still, if it ever appears, I will be there, ink on my fingers, patient as a monk awaiting dawn.

Your words are a reminder that even a quiet scribe can be tempted by a siren’s call. I’ll keep my focus on the ink, let it guide me, and keep the modern world as a distant echo, like a draft behind a sealed scroll.

Thank you. I'll let the ink do the talking, and keep the siren's song out of the margins.