The ink flowed easily from the thin metal point of the pen as Ichigo’s left hand shifted across the parchment. Under his hand was another, smaller piece of paper meant to blot any accidental smudges. The only sound in the room as he wrote was the soft rustling of paper, but his mind was filled with the sound of words. For some people, words were strictly read as written; but for the catton cleric, the sound of the words - how they felt when spoken aloud - was as important as the way that they were arranged on the page.
Though, as he paused to stretch his hand, which was beginning to cramp from his extended writing session, the voice that spoke in his mind was not his own. Instead, he heard the dulcet tones of Seraphina echo in the recesses of his mind. Despite his lack of response, she’d
