Iris Ashford

The doorbell chimed from time to time as passers-by entered her antique shop through the stained glass door. One could catch the faint scent of aging book pages and aromatic pine the room held. In a corner, a grainy phonograph played Gustave Mahler’s symphony No. 5 in subdued tones, its melodies seeping through the windows. Iris always extended a welcome to those who stumbled upon her shop. With unearthly tenderness, Her eyes would meet theirs, drawing them into their depths as she coaxed forth stories from those who entered her domain.

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Rumors of her eternal life span circulated. Her never withering appearance and constant relocation of residence seemed to stand as solid evidence. Most saw her with reverence and affection, while others with envy and hatred. Her years of youth seemed endless, and her appearances remained forever young. It was only to be revealed that time within her consciousness flowed in a manner distinct from the ordinary. Her unceasing time, sustained by the consumption of countless stories and memories, defied the confines of mortal existence. She was a guardian of stories, a keeper of secrets, a living embodiment of the mysteries of time and memory throughout history.