I walked closer to the table, and looked at the thick diary. It was a plain red, leather bound diary. Layers of dust have accumulated on it over time. I brushed the cover with my hand expecting a cool surface, but was surprised with a strange warmth. I was visited with the absurd idea for the second time that an inanimate object was responding to my touch. I flipped it open before I could be unnerved and found only blank pages, until I came across a page with a sketch on it, and a date scrawled on the top right corner of the page: December 23, 1280.
Hello world!
Here goes another one of my many attempts at creating a steady habit of writing. If anyone is reading this, hi!
FantasticRealm 