The old book had had many masters, both young and old, male and female, innocent and corrupt. It had seen it all, and was still there. It was an old book, bound in ancient leather, with cracks along its spine from excessive use. It pages were yellow with age, and the ink upon them a burnt red, smudge in some places. The words found in its depths were ancient, older than Rome, older than the Pharaohs that once ruled Egypt. Though many had possessed the book, none had been able to read it, though that had not stopped them from trying. Its last owner had been driven mad with his need to learn the books secrets, thumbing through its pages every night, cross referencing the letters with some of the oldest languages on the planet. He had found nothing, and now he was gone, his obsession consuming him at the end. And so the book found itself being packaged up, along with a number of other items, and mailed with a note to its next owner. In his maddened state the books last owner had forgotten to change his will, and so rather then being buried with the book, which was what the man had wanted, it was instead being passed on to his relatives.
The note was a simple explanation for what happened, that he had stopped carrying for himself and passed on. As ordered in his will and testament, all his belongings are being distributed to his remaining family. In particular, his book collection was to go to his favorite niece. The box arrived at its destination, and there the book waited, waited to see who would be next to pick it up.
The note was a simple explanation for what happened, that he had stopped carrying for himself and passed on. As ordered in his will and testament, all his belongings are being distributed to his remaining family. In particular, his book collection was to go to his favorite niece. The box arrived at its destination, and there the book waited, waited to see who would be next to pick it up.