One day, when I was looking for some of my old books, I found a secret, yet strange, compartment. Inside of it I could see a really, really, old and dusty book. In its cover was wrote something that I couldn't read due to wear.
Of course this book caught my attention, and in a blink of an eye I grabbed it, put it on my desk and opened it. Dust flew off on my face, almost causing my death (okay, I'm exaggerating a bit).
After I've cleaned its old pages with a blow, I finally started to read it. As I had thought, the worn book was a diary, which of course, the author didn't wanted it to be found.
I know, I know, you want that I tell you about the story, right? Okay, I got it! Calm down!
The book started with this little paragraph…
"What was the start of all this?
When did the cogs of fate begin to turn?
Perhaps it is impossible to grasp that answer now,
From deep within the flow of time...
But, for a certainty, back then,
We loved so many, yet hated so much,
We hurt others and were hurt ourselves...
Yet even then, we ran like the wind,
Whilst our laughter echoed,
Under cerulean skies..."
And then, it goes like this…