Dear Diary

A young boy laid in bed, looking up at the ceiling. Around him he heard the breath of others, all sleeping. But he couldn’t sleep. He almost never could.

Oliver got up, throwing off the covers. He was sick of being here. Working hard every day, unable to sleep every night despite the fact that he was exhausted. That’s all the the orphanage brought him.

But tonight his bed was extra uncomfortable. He had squirmed under his sheets all night, and now it was too much. He needed to get some sleep. So now he got up and reached under the matress. There was something there, he was sure of it.

He nearly gasped when his fingers met the bindings of…a book? No, couldn’t be.

Books hadn’t been around for three hundred years, in the least.

But he’d found one. He pulled it out, wiping it off and looking at the covering. Leather even. This was extra old. Unheard of old.

He looked closely at it throught the dark. Imprinted in the leather on the front were two words:

Dear Diary
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