Author's Note:

Feel free to correct me if I'm historically inaccurate whenever I'm just wrong altogether. I'm a professional when it comes to making mistakes.

Prologue

I follow the young man's light footsteps as he leads me down his mansion. His home is one akin to a fairytale castle. With long corridors, tall ceilings and extravagant paintings lining the stone walls, how such a young man (age 24 no less) is able to afford such an estate puzzles me. Had he inherited this place? I take note of witnessing no other relatives or housemates within my brief stay. I begin to wonder if he is the only being inhabiting the residence. I thus conclude his loneliness that I could now almost perfectly visualize.

We stop in front of the room nearing the end of the hall. He pulls a worn key from his trouser pocket and unlocks the door. It swings open with a groan and we step inside. He flicks the switch to a small chandelier fixated at the top center of the room and a dim light flickers on. It merges with the sunlight coming in from a tall window and gives the small library a cozy feel. There's a chair that looks as if it's nearing it's final stages and a fireplace adjacent to several filled bookcases that are lining the walls. The young man motioned me towards the first bookshelf on his left.

Putting a set of curious eyes on my face I see that those books look more aged than the others in the room.

"These books must be older than me." The lie naturally falls from my lips as I walk over to get a closer look.

He puts on a meaningless smile and takes a small step back, giving me room to explore.

I notice that these books are numbered in gold print in Roman numerals starting from 1337. I put on an act of confusion and pick one up that's within my reach labeled '1394'. While carefully nursing it I flip to a page at random.

The books handwritten and stunning, transforming the letters and words into an artist's masterpiece. Not a spot of ink or sign of uncertainty is to be seen. I begin to read and realization forms at the pit of my stomach.

This journal in my very hand is written over six centuries ago by the same man standing before me. I tried to hide my overwhelming emotions as I gently close the journal and return it to it's rightful place.

Unable to look him in the eye I stare at the floor and say, "You're older than me."

"By 302 years, three months and 10 days exactly, Mister Jones."