ð✨ The Library – Monday ✨ð
The group found refuge in the crumbling remains of an old public library ð️ð — its air thick with dust, silence, and the ghosts of knowledge long abandoned. The faint glow of their solar lanterns ðĶ danced across the shelves, illuminating cracked spines and torn pages that whispered of a forgotten world.
Jas brushed dust off an ancient computer terminal ðŧ, coaxing it to life with the last of their solar power reserve ⚡.
The screen flickered weakly, humming like a tired memory. Lines of faded code appeared, then — miraculously — a connection.
“Whoa, check this out,” Jas said, eyes wide as they scrolled through archived social media posts from another era ðēðŽ.
On the dim screen, a single tweet appeared — a fossilized opinion from a world that once moved too fast:
“When Donald Trump is pushing so hard to get rid of Canada’s current leaders, obviously @PierrePoilievre is already under his thumb. Trump is scared to deal with a leader like @JustinTrudeau who will stand up to him. Pierre is a Trump ððĪŠðĨš.”
Ivy Mae shook their head slowly ð.
“So much for solidarity,” they murmured. “Even back then, people couldn’t agree on what really mattered.” ð
Roman ran a hand along a shelf of ancient history books, their spines flaking to dust beneath his touch ðð°️.
“Why is it always about power and control?” he muttered.
Jas scrolled further down the feed ð. “It’s like they were more interested in fighting each other than actually fixing the problems.” ⚔️ð
From a nearby pile of crumbling magazines, Ivy Mae pulled one free — its cover half-torn, its pages yellowed and delicate as autumn leaves ðð.
“Listen to this,” they said, voice soft but curious.
The article told of Hilma af Klint — a visionary artist who painted abstract masterpieces long before the world was ready for them ðĻð. Her work, hidden away in wooden boxes for decades, was only discovered long after her death… a secret legacy that forever changed the story of modern art ð️ðŦ.
“Imagine creating something revolutionary — and then hiding it away,” Ivy Mae whispered, lost in thought.
Jas leaned back, watching the dim screen’s glow flicker across their face ðĄ.
“And then there’s Van Gogh,” they said softly. “The total opposite. He put everything out there — his pain, his beauty — and no one cared until he was gone. Now his art is everywhere, but do people even see it anymore?” ðĻð
Roman sighed, the sound echoing softly through the still library ðŽ️.
“So if you hide your truth, it might never be found… but if you share it too much, it gets lost in the noise.” ð
Silence settled again — heavy, thoughtful, alive.
Around them, the shelves loomed like sentinels of memory, the flicker of the old screen reflecting in their eyes ðĶðð.
Finally, Ivy Mae closed the brittle magazine, their voice calm but resolute.
“Maybe the trick isn’t hiding or oversharing,” they said. “Maybe it’s about sharing with the right people, at the right time.” ⏳ðŦ
Jas smirked, a spark of hope in their tired smile.
“Guess that’s what we’re doing now, huh?” ð✨
Outside, the wind howled through the abandoned streets ðŠ️, carrying whispers of the world that was. Inside, in the heart of the forgotten library, The Changerz sat surrounded by relics of both creation and collapse, determined to keep searching — for truth, for meaning, for something worth rebuilding. ðð