As I entered the world of nothing but maturity and busy people running for their lives, I came to a certain conclusion; that the world is, indeed, the largest library. Within it are only two shelves—the completed and the ongoing. Among those piles of books on the nth row of the ongoing shelf was a book engraved with my name. It was one among those stories that contained the clichés of life—struggles, success, regrets, promises and of course, ghosts.
If there was one dominating genre of my book, it would be horror. If my childhood was full of rainbow-colored paradise on top of cotton candy clouds, then what comes after was that of the opposite. There was only a dark pathway, a lone girl, and a haunting ghost. For the remaining years of my existence, as someone nearing the "the end", I have never imagined I would write such horror-filled pages.
The sky was particularly blue today, with no signs of large pearly clouds. The wind was blowing with such generosity that the rug on my lap stayed still without trouble. As I glide through one of the completed shelves in the area, the distant trees were awfully quiet and the no birds sang in my ears. I tightly gripped the wheels as I came to a stop at the sight of a familiar name.
"It's been a while," I muttered. "Von Lucena."
This particular shelf where I am today was crowded with unique completed stories of authors in their previous years. It was never a pleasant sound in my ears, this kind of silence that this place brings. It was neither calm nor peaceful. Especially this area where I found his name. The heaviness of the air is unbearable to carry any longer.
But I stayed.
I had to. I have to re-read everything from where he started popping inside my story and how he casually haunted me like it was a natural thing. This was the only way to remember him and peacefully have my ending.
It all started on one beautiful summer...