It is a terrible thing to introduce oneself, as doing so requires one to admit both to existing and to being known— two activities which, in my experience, often lead to dreadful consequences. Nevertheless, in the spirit of transparency, or at least as much as is advisable, I am Oasis Frothe: librarian-in-training, devoted student of the arts, and, on occasion, an unwelcome guest in places I have no business being. By day, I can be found among the quiet stacks of the university’s music department, surrounded by dusty scores and forgotten compositions. I spend my time arranging symphonies of misplaced notes, deciphering the margins of aged librettos, and, when no one is looking, translating cryptic annotations left behind by hands long vanished. When not buried in my studies of art, foreign language, and music, I frequent the stages of local productions, blending into chorus lines or vanishing behind painted backdrops. A good disguise, I have learned, is often a well-timed cue. When I first arrived at the university, I believed— as so many do— that higher education would reveal who I truly was. Instead, it revealed who everyone else was, which, in some ways, is more valuable. Among the scholarly and the well-read, I found kindred spirits who spoke in riddles and seemed to know more than they let on. I was offered a chance to join a noble tradition—one built on ink-stained fingers, secret gatherings, and a vow to safeguard the world's hidden knowledge. And for a time, I believed in it. But there are things they don’t tell you. That is the nature of any grand institution: its silences are often more instructive than its lectures. Eventually, I learned the unfortunate truths lurking in the fine print, and with that knowledge came an obligation to act. I have no regrets, except perhaps the occasional one, and though my nights are filled with tasks that keep me moving, watching, listening— I rest easier knowing that there are others like me, working to untangle the messes of the past. I do not seek recognition. Those who look too closely tend to disappear, and though I appreciate a good vanishing act, I prefer it on my own terms. But should you find yourself in need of a librarian, a musician, or someone willing to look where others dare not, you may find me where the ink runs darkest, where the music swells before the curtain falls, or in the margins of a book you never thought to check.