A library of scars

The Rebels have become an archive.

I look at my own walls here in Stockholm and realize I’ve built a library of scars. Old logs, scribbled notes, traces of Maynet’s fingerprints—pinned, taped, stacked. A history written in fragments.

Visitors sometimes ask why I keep them. “It’s over,” they say. But memory is fragile. If I take these down, it will be too easy to forget the weight of what happened.

This is not obsession. This is vigilance. The scars remind me of the cost of blindness.

Maybe Rebels are no longer fighters. Maybe we are librarians now. Guardians of scars. Keepers of memory.