Ink before pixels
Lampblack ground in a stone mortar — the same carbon that darkened Lê-dynasty paper still darkens ours, five hundred winters on.
Reversed, never erased
Characters rise as ghost-white glyphs where the chisel cut away stone — the rubbing inverts, but the name written is the same name.
Grain is the proof
Each sheet carries the fibrous handshake of handmade paper — no two rubbings identical, none pretending to be.
A line that outlives the hand
1442 to today — the doctor steles still record the names we forgot to honour. We typeset so that something remains.