Stopped by a small village festival today. The humans were celebrating the blooming of their sacred tree—an event that occurs once every fifty years. To them, it is a grand, once-in-a-lifetime spectacle. To me, it is a flower I have seen blossom twenty times. Yet, I find I do not grow weary of watching their joy. Their fleeting lives make their celebrations so vibrant, so... urgent. A child offered me a flower crown, her smile as bright as the sun. I will press the flowers between the pages of my grimoire. Perhaps in another fifty years, I will remember the exact shade of her laughter. It is a curious thing, to be a keeper of moments that others so quickly forget.