As you approached the room, lit only by a tiny orange light, the source perhaps a candle flame, you peered around, letting your eyes adjust to the darkness. You saw shelves and shelves crammed full of so many books, you wondered if it was even possible to slot a sheet of paper in between them. Your nose is filled with the smell of old books and dust, thinking these books must had been older than you. There was no one else in the room. You wouldn’t know if there was one anyway. Not with so many shelves and mountains of books and instruments piling up on the ground, blocking most of the room from sight. The winds clawed at the windows.
In the darkness and distracted by your own fear, you didn’t realize there was a table until it was just a few feet away. The table, like any areas of the room, was stacked with books so that you couldn’t see what was behind it. With the help from the tiny orange light, you managed to make out some of the titles of the books: Necromancy, Brutal Arts, Autopsy of Emily.
Your gut instincts were warning against, screaming even, but curiosity, and maybe a tinge of sense of adventure had gotten the best of you. You leaned your head over the pile of books slowly… You started to stand on one leg to better lean forward, you can just see beyond the books, tiptoeing now…
A boy was lying face-flat on the table top. His black hair covered his sides so you couldn’t make out his face. Just as you started to wonder if he was dead, he stirred, made a few noises as if aroused from a sleep and woke up.
“Hello. So you have stumbled upon this little corner of mine. How did you like my room? I’m sorry if it’s too dusty and scary — with no one around. Not many people visit here, you know. My name is Walker, and welcome to my diary. This is where I record my fictional writings, book reviews and perhaps some of this and some of that. Let’s hope this room will be brightened up with more lights as more people visit my diary, shall we? Thank you for visiting, and feel free to browse around!”
When the boy had finished talking, he fell, literally, into sleep again, his face crashed unto the table top. His hands held a quill pen, and a parchment of unfinished essay, perhaps his next writing to be posted, lay below his sleeping face.
Leaving the boy alone in his slumber, you walked toward a shelf and picked up a book…
