The wall remembers who lived here.

Behind every old city wall there are cracks. In the cracks there is moss. In the moss - if you look with a lantern - there are Mossbits. They are tiny spirits with small jobs: lighting candles for travellers still out late, collecting buttons that fall from coats, patching cracks before they grow, shepherding snails that refuse to hurry. Each of the 256 is one of a kind. Each has a mood, a hat, a wall it prefers. Nobody minted a floor. Nobody promised a return. People who take a Mossbit home do it because they met one that felt like theirs - on the wall, in the quiz, or in a crack they almost walked past. The collection is finite on purpose. When the last Mossbit leaves the wall, the wall stays: a field guide of who lived there, and who took which spirit home.