Nobody remembers who bought $ARTHUR first. The archivist does, because remembering is the whole of the job. It came in among a litter of fourteen others from the same hand, $LONG and $MUN and $MC and the rest, siblings in a line of fifteen, none of them yet graduated, none of them yet dead before this one. Brisa put in three ETH and change and took out most of it again, an honest sort of loss. That was the shape of the ordinary trading, small and forgettable.
Then at eleven fifty-two the maker's own wallet moved, and it moved only one way. No buys, one sell, twenty-two point four six ETH drawn out in a single motion, the largest sum this coin ever saw pass through it. After that $ARTHUR did what emptied things do: it lay flat for four hours, ninety-eight parts in a hundred of its five-minute breaths showing no pulse at all, down six percent across the stretch, then stopped, liquidity at zero, price a fossil of $0.000369. Six hours and three tenths, start to finish, against a median of eight for coins its size that die; this one did not even manage the average grave.
The archivist reserves no judgement now. A maker who sells twenty-two ETH of his own coin to no one but himself has already told the chain what $ARTHUR was for, and the chain, dull and patient, believed him.