In a Tingen suburb, there was a house with a green lawn.
The house had a garden that had begun to wither at the beginning of September. Attached to the house was a crimson chimney.
There was a desk next to the window in the bedroom of that house. An ordinary notebook was spread open on the table.
A slightly pale hand flipped the notebook to the very first page, then it quickly flipped to the back.
As the paper flipped, the rows of words appeared faintly.
Many rows were scribbled off and new content followed.
More rows were scribbled away again, and the original content was impossible to read.
…
Many rows were scribbled away again.
…
Rows and rows of writings were scribbled away, more than all of the previous rows added together.
A few rows were scribbled away.
The notebook was flipped to the last page. A middle-aged man that was holding onto the book had dark blond hair, a dark blue eye that was nearly black, a tall nose, and tightly pursed lips. His facial features were like that of a statue and didn’t have a single wrinkle. He held a classic quill with his slightly pale hand and wrote a line clearly without dipping into any ink.
He ended with a simple sentence.
The papers rustled as he closed the book, leaving only a brown cover.
