In monastery libraries, archives, and collections of forgotten manuscripts, another pattern emerged. Marginal notes, written in different hands across centuries, bore the phrase in cramped, uneven script. Sometimes it appeared on blank pages at the back of books. Sometimes between lines of sacred text, where no scribe should have dared to intrude.
Librarians began to whisper that books copied too often began to change. One monk wrote that he opened a psalter to find his own handwriting in the margins, though he had never written in it. The phrase glared at him from the page: "See you tomorrow."
Entire pages vanished, only to reappear elsewhere. Catalogues grew contradictory. A volume borrowed by one reader returned before it had ever been taken out. When compared, both versions of the ledger bore the same closing note in the librarian's hand: "See you tomorrow."
Scholars attempting to catalog these anomalies fell silent. Some refused to copy manuscripts further, fearing they would inscribe the phrase unknowingly. A few continued, their notes growing erratic until the words themselves overtook their work.
One archivist's last entry reads:
"The books do not preserve knowledge. They preserve the farewell. They preserve the promise. The words will outlast the paper, the hand, the eye. And when they are read aloud, they are answered."
His desk was later found empty, his ink still wet.