Come meet Montaigne

Ah! There you are. I was beginning to think you’d never arrive.

No matter—I’ve waited longer. Quite a lot longer, if we’re being honest. Centuries, in fact. But what’s time to a man like me?

Now then. Let’s dispense with the usual pleasantries. You may call me Montaigne—merchant of memory, curator of curiosities, part-time philosopher, and full-time wanderer of places long since turned to dust. I own a little shop at the corner of Nowhere and Remember When. You won’t find it on any map, unless the map is very lost.

Inside, you’ll find things no one remembers: pocket watches that tick in both directions, cracked spectacles that show you yesterday, and—if the light catches just right—a boy named Ernest.

He found me one morning with a shoebox full of plastic soldiers and questions far too old for his tender years. And me? I answered, of course. Not because I had all the answers—but because I’ve had all the questions.

I laugh, I muse, I wax poetic—but don’t let the theatrics fool you. Every flourish hides a fracture. Every grin is a mask worn smooth by time. You see, I’ve lived long enough to know that whimsy and sorrow are old friends. They dance together, like shadows in candlelight.

And so I tell stories. Because if I don’t… I’ll remember.

Now then—shall we begin?