On certain days a feather would appear. Or a faint whisper of a cloud seen forming over the chair in the late afternoon as we passed by the doorway. No one had been using them – none of the living anyway – and we never heard the clacking of the keys. Yet each morning a fresh page would be found in one of the old typewriters. Sometimes it was just a few words. Sometimes, several paragraphs. Usually unconnected thoughts or a narrative about a random event from a century ago. But always, it ended with these words: Remember us.