Remsl May 2026

I met Remsl on a Thursday, which was market day, though the market had been dead for thirty years. I was there to catalogue the ruins for the Historical Society—a fool’s errand, as the Society had no money and the ruins had no interest in being catalogued.

He walked away down the ruined high street, his hands already starting a new shape—a cobbler’s shop, I thought, or a stable. The shush-shush-shush of his knife followed him like a loyal dog. I met Remsl on a Thursday, which was

“Homes,” he said. “I carve the homes people have forgotten they lived in. Not the walls. The space inside the walls. The warm pocket of air where a child hid during hide-and-seek. The bit of hallway where two people fell in love on a rainy Tuesday. The silence in the pantry after a good meal.” The shush-shush-shush of his knife followed him like

I never finished my catalogue. Instead, I went home and dug out an old whittling knife from my grandfather’s toolbox. I am not good at it. My carvings are clumsy, lopsided things that look like nothing at all. Not the walls

“You’re the scribbler,” he said. His voice was the sound of dry bark flaking off a log.

“What are you carving?” I whispered.

It was not a name given at birth, nor a title earned in battle. It was a sound, a shape, a void in the shape of a man. Remsl .