Tall wooden shelves rise around me, packed with old, weathered books, their spines cracked and faded. The soft glow of amber light catches the grain of the wood, casting shadows that seem to breathe. It smells of aged paper and dust.The space invites contemplation, as if each book holds stories waiting to be discovered.
I stepped inside,the air thick with the scent of old paper and ink. With each step, the floorboards groan softly beneath my weight, their aged wood bending ever so slightly. I move toward the towering shelves, my hand trailing along the rough wood, feeling the grain beneath my fingertips—smooth in some places, splintered in others. The scent of aged oak mingles with the dusty musk of paper, and the soft rustle of my steps is the only sound in the stillness.
I stopped, drawn to a particular book wedged between two larger volumes, its spine cracked and fraying at the edges. The leather cover faded to a dull brown, barely holding together, and the faint trace of gold lettering lingers like a ghost on its surface. I pull it free gently, the weight heavier than I expected.
Turning the book over in my hands, brushing away a thin layer of dust that clings stubbornly to the cover. The faint gold letters come into focus : Nagis Grandhorn
The corners of the book are worn down to soft curves, the leather cracked from years of handling. wonder who Nagis Grandhorn was and what stories these logs might hold.
Reading a few pages of the book-"a dairy'' I thought to myself. As It was filled with mundane details of this-Nagis-persons daily activities.
A dairy is a curious thing—an unassuming collection of moments that could seem mundane or profound, depending on who's reading. It might hold the ordinary rhythm of days, cataloging the weather, idle thoughts, or the passing of time in quiet simplicity. Yet within those pages, the most insignificant detail—a fleeting observation, a scribbled regret, or a half-formed idea—could carry a weight that the reader could never anticipate.
I let the book slip gently back into its place on the shelf, the worn spine settling with a soft thud, as if it belonged there all along. With a final glance at the fading title, I turned and walked toward a nearby table, the sound of my footsteps swallowed by the thick stillness of the library.
The table was smooth, polished from years of use, its surface cool beneath my palms as I settle into the worn wooden chair. I reach into my leather bag, the familiar creak of it breaking the silence, and pull out a fresh, untouched diary. Its cover is crisp, the pages clean and unmarked. For a moment, I hold it there in front of me, the scent of new paper mingling with the atmosphere around me.
I ran my fingers over the smooth cover of the new diary, I felt a quiet resolve settle in my chest. Like Nagis Grandhorn, I want to capture everything—the small, fleeting moments. From the first light of dawn to the last fading thought before sleep, I'll write it all down. Every step I take, every word spoken, every shadow that passes across my mind. There's a strange comfort in the thought that, long after the moments have faded from memory, they'll live on here, pressed between these pages. This will be my record, my story.
I want to begin at the very start—right where my journey truly began. Not just the big moments, but everything. The first steps I took, the quiet doubts, the scattered hopes. Every whispered thought, every fleeting feeling, even the silences in between. I want to capture it all, as if by writing it down, I can hold on to the pieces of myself that might otherwise be lost.
With that thought, I reach back into my leather bag and pull out my pen. It's worn, the brass tip dulled from use, but it feels comfortable in my hand. The cap clicks off with a sharp snap, and I press it to the first blank page. The sound was rough, like dry leaves skittering over stone, and it echoes faintly in the stillness.
The ink flows fast, dark and determined, and the more I write, the louder the scratching becomes, like the diary itself is hungry for the words. Each stroke fills the silence, a rhythmic, urgent scratching that feels like I'm carving my story into the paper, desperate to leave nothing behind.