I am but paper. Brittle and thin. I am held up to the sun, and it shines through me. I get written on, and I can never be used again. These scratches are a history. There a story. They tell things for others to read, but they only see the words and not what the words are written upon. I am but paper, and though there are many like me, none are exactly the same. I am parched parchment. I have lines. I have holes. Get me wet, and I melt. Light me on fire, and I burn. Take me in hardened hands, and I crumple. I tear. I am but paper. Brittle and thin.

— The House in the Cerulean Sea by TJ Klune (Page 133)