Tall wooden shelves surround me, crammed with old, weathered books. Their cracked spines and faded covers hint at centuries of stories. A soft amber glow highlights the wood's grain, and the faint shadows dance like they're alive. The air smells of aged paper and dust, inviting quiet reflection, as if each book holds secrets waiting to be uncovered.

I step inside, the scent of old ink and parchment thick around me. The floorboards creak softly underfoot, their worn wood bending slightly with each step. I trail my fingers along the rough edges of the shelves, feeling the smooth and splintered patches of the ancient oak. The only sound is the soft rustle of my steps in the stillness.

One book catches my eye, wedged between two larger volumes. Its spine is cracked, the leather cover faded to a dull brown, with gold lettering barely visible, like a whisper from the past. I carefully pull it free, surprised by its weight.

Brushing off a thin layer of dust, I uncover the faint letters: Nagis Grandhorn.

The corners are worn smooth, and the leather cracks from years of use. I wonder who Nagis Grandhorn was. What stories might be hidden in these pages?

I flip it open and skim a few entries. A diary, I realize, filled with the simple details of Nagis's daily life—nothing extraordinary, yet somehow intriguing.

A diary is a strange thing. It captures the ordinary rhythms of life—notes about the weather, idle thoughts, even passing regrets. Yet, within those pages, the smallest detail could hold a meaning the writer never intended, waiting to be found by someone else.

I slide the book back onto the shelf. It settles with a soft thud, like it belongs there. With a last glance at the faded title, I turn and walk to a nearby table. My footsteps are swallowed by the thick quiet of the library.

The table is smooth, polished from years of use, cool beneath my hands as I sit in a worn wooden chair. From my leather bag, I pull out a fresh diary, its cover crisp and pages blank. For a moment, I simply hold it, breathing in the clean scent of new paper.

I run my fingers over the smooth cover and feel a quiet determination settle inside me. Like Nagis Grandhorn, I want to capture everything—the little moments that slip by unnoticed. From the first light of dawn to the final thought before sleep, I will write it all. There's comfort in knowing these memories will live on, even after they fade from my mind. This will be my story.

I want to start at the beginning—not just the big moments, but everything. The first steps, the doubts, the small hopes. Every whispered thought, every fleeting feeling, even the silences. By writing them down, I can hold onto pieces of myself that might otherwise be lost.

Reaching into my bag, I pull out my pen. The brass tip is worn from use, but it feels familiar in my hand. The cap clicks off with a sharp snap, and I press it to the first blank page. The sound is rough, like dry leaves skittering over stone.

The ink flows smoothly, dark and steady. The more I write, the louder the scratching becomes, as if the diary is hungry for my words. Each stroke fills the silence, a rhythmic scratching, like I'm carving my story into the paper, determined to leave nothing behind.