2.
. . .
"Baudelaire, eh."
The headline was drastic. It read, "Mansion Burned to Ashes." I don't even want to think of fire anymore. It took so many lives, including those of my parents'. I just hope my siblings are okay. I couldn't help think of them since the fire that separated me from them.
Just now I feared the wooden door above me wouldn't budge; I wouldn't want to stay any longer in that dark, unending passageway. Eventually, I just had to push hard enough so it could open. And when I got up on the ashen grounds, I found this torn newspaper headline.
And what was there really was true. From where I stood, ashes covered the ground.
The scrap of paper's going with me, because before I know it I might need it. Well, my purple commonplace book never gets lost, at least as far as I know, so I'm gonna stick it there.
The Baudelaires.
I know I've met one of them, but can't remember when...
I know it was in this mansion that we were introduced. But I can't remember who held her hand out to me even when I seemed to have disturbed her doing something--an invention, perhaps?--but of course, something that long might have already slipped my mind. Even more so now that the mansion has burned down.
Looking down, I saw a ribbon. Under my shoe. It was covered in ashes, but it still remained unharmed from the fire.
This is going with me, too.
I'm glad I learned to draw maps. They really help.
Someday I might need these maps to look for that person I met long ago.