Date: 11/13/51
Today Olivia gave me this journal. She is my teacher, my guide. She told me to keep this book to record new things I learn every day, like big words and math.
Mum is helping a lot. She is helping me write neatly and spell correctly 'cuz when I do it without Mum's help Owen calls it 'scribble-scrabble.' He's one to talk. He's ten and I'm six, and I write better than he does!
What is it that Mum always says when she's acting impalight? (I don't know how to spell the word, but I'm pretty sure it means 'rude.' Mum isn't much of a help. She said to spell it like it sounds.) Oh yeah. Where are my manners? I'm Ben, Ben Kenobi. 'Least, that's what they call me. Mum says that when I was very small I couldn't say my real name, Obi-Wan, only Ben, so that's what they called me.
My dad, Eoin, is a pilot. He flies for the Republic fleece, I think. No, not the fleece, the fleet. Sorry. Dad has dark hair like Owen and eyes same as mine and Olivia's. His hands are ginormous and super rough, like hard leather, from working with tools and hot metal from day to day. At first glance, one might describe Eoin Kenobi as 'brusque,' 'gruff,' or 'brisk,' but once you got to know him you'd know he's the bestest dad ever.
My mum, Arwena, is an ambassador. People are constantly calling her a politician, but she always corrects them. Apparently, she's something called an active diplomat, the kind of person who is on neither side of a fight and tries to solve it in the simplest, most beneficial way possible. Mum has long hair, the same color as mine and Olivia's, and green eyes like Owen.
I want to be like both Mum and Dad when I grow up.
I have a brother and a sister, Owen and Olivia. Owen is ten, but acts half that age most of the time, so in maturity I'm about a year ahead of him. Olivia is sixteen, and the bestest older sister ever. As in, bestest EVER. The other children grumble sometimes about how their elder siblings coddle them or shun them; but not Olivia. If it weren't for Olivia, I wouldn't have this journal in the first place.
Anyway, I gotta dash. Dad's bringing out the new engine for the modifications on his latest ship. Mum probably won't approve, but who cares?
-OW'B'K
Anakin stared apprehensively and disbelievingly at the leaf of flimsy folded betwixt his fingers. Surely coming into Obi-Wan's room didn't guarantee finding some extremely personal sheet of flimsiplast.
No, this couldn't be a note from a six-year-old Obi-Wan Kenobi... it would have to be at least thirty years old for that. This was well cared for, not the slightest hint of yellowing at the edges. A sheet of flimsy would not last that long...
...unless that journal spoken of in the note was real and this was a collection of notes over time.
If so, he absolutely had to find the other sheets.
He thrust a hand under the bed, groping around for anything resembling a sheet of thirty-year-old flimsy. His hand landed on a sock, a ribbon, a variety of things that shall not be named here, and another sock.
And then he felt the small booklet with the parchment cover.
He slowly drew it out, flipping the pages experimentally. The smell of parchment treated his nose.
Huh. He thought a thirty-year-old notebook would have more of a 'Walking Dead Word Corpse' smell. Not that he'd ever smelled a Walking Dead Word Corpse.
He ran back to his small room, taking the notebook with him. Obi-Wan wouldn't notice that this notebook was gone, would he...
...unless, of course, he wrote in it regularly.
Anakin shrugged, deciding quickly to read some of the notebook today then return it. His curiosity had been piqued, and when the Force's Chosen One was curious, there was no stopping him.
