Stacked Odds.

Her red nib swished across passages of time, and that of examination scripts. Her gaze fell upon expositions of The Occupation. A similar thread coursed through the various institutions.

The Name resonated ad nauseam amongst these pages.

She would leave them and gingerly, her fingers rested upon The Book. Its pages parted and The Name unmistakably glistened.

This could not be.

Her fingertips danced across the keyboard. The singular notion of yore beckoned her orbs. It froze on cue, forcing an involuntary admission of that to be shunned.

A flick and darkness prevailed before her.

A still small voice croaked, "No."