It was as a letter written long ago, from a place which no longer stands. Back when the walls still stood up tall and the roof kept the rain at bay.
It was written by a flame, or perhaps in the light of early dawn, and showed the thoughts of one back then in a time not unlike today.
Would they know that another would read? Or would be a secret to keep? If their spirit were to linger, would they even care of what was there?
It is a simple tome, barely larger than my hand. One whose pages are held together by dust and age.
The ink it still looks fresh, the smell of dust pervades it all, and without a name upon the page it seems as a journal addressed to none.
Who knows how long it sat before and after it had been written, but my curiosity brings me to open its pages.
Perhaps I will find a secret or an insight into the world, or perhaps even a mundane thought or list of goods. But I will open that old book and dare to peek at what’s inside, and read of a world forgotten for one reason or another.