Usage-san Inkwell pressed a hand to her stone well as black ink spilled over the rim again. Two years of strangers' unfinished stories sloshed inside it, and the well could no longer hold them. Tiny ink blot creatures wiggled out of the spill and trailed after her paws. She needed ground. Real ground. A place to finally root the bookstore garden she carried inside her chest. She gathered her dripping skirts and walked into the thicket. The trees leaned close, watching. Ink dripped from her hem and marked the path behind her. The little blot creatures hopped along, whispering half-sentences she had collected from sad strangers and shy children. Deep in the woods, she stopped. A clearing opened before her, and the soil there looked darker, richer, almost humming. Sprouts already pushed through cracks in the earth, as if the ground had been waiting. Usage-san knelt and pressed her palm flat against the dirt. It was warm. This was the plot. She worked quickly. She dragged in a heavy wooden planter box and set it at the center, filling it with the seed-shaped story scraps she had carried for so long. Around it, she built more boxes, each one open for strangers to drop in their unfinished ideas or take one home to finish. Behind them all, a crooked little building took shape, lanterns glowing in its windows. She hung a wooden sign above the door. Storybloom Library. The ink blot creatures climbed the walls and settled into the eaves like cats coming home. Usage-san dropped three of her own seeds into the soil. They bloomed at once, petals splashed with dark ink, leaves trembling open. She smiled, ink-stained and tired. The garden had ground. Now the stories could grow.