At the age of 12 I thought I was responsible enough to know where I lived but as always I liked to explore.My name is Arnold but outside I called myself the thrill seeker as I was not afraid of anything.
The worst thing about getting lost is the weather as it could be a silent but deadly hedge of sleet or even worse as it could be the sharp and rigorous hail. This time it was both with one cloud in the country is hail and mine is a bit of sleet and no don't think I live in a city. I live in a village.
Nothing thrills me about this place and it's all the same every day,I get lost,I get found and this day... wasn't expected.
I sat in a bus stop hoping it would keep me dry but then I saw just the thing,an old,crooked and grey house with probably hundreds of leaks but I guess there could be a few good finds. I pushed the door and it was strangely unlocked,I walked in with a bit of terror on my face,I looked in a draw on a desk and there were bottles with brown corks on the top of them and I then I looked in the dining room and found old antiques and copper forks and goblets still filled with wine,800 year old wine, and I was fully shocked this building was still here and the last part to look at was upstairs. As expected it was still very old but the most interesting part was the library. I looked shelf by shelf and it was boring but solemnly why was it here and why were the books written by the same person every time? And maybe the owner had written all these books and guess what? I was right and in fact there was a diary on the owner's desk in the library and it was a full diary of how he wrote his novels. But there was a catch as one page was empty and it offered to write the reader's name in it so I wrote with a quill in the ink pot my name and it replied with ''let's find a book for you'' and it gave me one thick one called ''the book of all wizardry''