"I am a pond in the middle of the island."
—
My name is Crotasious Morelin. No, that stupid name isn't mine—my real name is Cain and the former is my username online. I'm a socially awkward guy. Massively. That's my worst problem. I want to communicate with other people, but somehow, I manage to fucked up even the most casual conversations.
Even when I'm talking about a topic I am familiar with, I will feel nervous when I meet their gaze. I am a loser. I want to change, but I can't. I realized I was just their backup friend, so I stopped talking to them as well. It's better to waste my life than to use it on useless folks...which was a dumb decision.
I desire company. I want to play with real "true" friends.
Consuming media became my way of coping with what I lack in reality. On the internet, I feel free and unrestrained, but I've grown bored of that too. I thought about trying methamphetamine or cocaine, but I'm broke, and my father is a cop—a bastard who doesn't care about his own son.
I'm tired. Of everything. Of school. Of mornings. Of repetition. Why do I even bother going? I'm not planning on staying alive long enough to see a future anyway. So I stopped showing up at school. I tried spending my time on chess, and for a while, I felt passionate about it. But that feeling passed too. There's nothing new...
I live just for the sake of it.
One night, while browsing through my computer, I suddenly heard a noise behind me. It creeped me out since I was alone. But instances like this are just normal—unless I personally saw a ghost, I wouldn't be spooked. Yet, I somehow felt strange.
I slowly turned toward the bed.
"...!"
What I saw was a book. A clean book with a fancy-looking design. It looked like it just came out of a factory, it was that pristine. Despite not being interested in literature, I was aware of that fact. But that's what creeped me out. I didn't remember having this book in my possession. I had never been interested in literature, nor did I plan to read one soon. If you searched my entire room, you wouldn't find a single notebook, let alone a book.
"Must be from Pops..."
My father is the only other person in this house besides me. Calming myself down, I approached the bed and silently sat beside the book.
The first thing I looked at was the title, but there wasn't one—just an empty cover. Aside from the fancy exterior, there was nothing particularly notable about it. I tried checking the back to see if the owner's name was written there, but it was empty too.
"...Should I open it?"
As far as I knew, this shouldn't be some diary written by someone. Even if it were, I didn't really care. I was more interested in the content of the book than the owner.
With that thought, I gently opened the cover to the first page.
"...?"
I frowned upon reading what was written on the first page.
'The Book of Creations'
The first page contained only a single sentence written in Roman font. The entire page was clean, even the ones that followed it up to the last one.
"What does that even mean...?"
I stared blankly at the book, contemplating the meaning of that sentence. After failing to think of any clues, I searched the internet. What I found was a book named "The Book of Creation."
I went to Wikipedia to find its description. Fancy-looking books like this definitely aren't cheap and often sell for a high price. But first, I needed to understand its purpose and content.
After a few minutes of reading articles, I more or less understood what the Book of Creation was about. According to my interpretation, it describes the mystical process of how "God" created the universe.
But it was weird—the cover wasn't the same as the one I possessed, and there wasn't even a single word on the book aside from that first sentence. I searched for more information but was unable to find anything that matched the description.
Tired and dizzy, I had no choice but to stop what I was doing and sleep.
"I'll just continue tomorrow..."
The next morning, I woke up to the sound of birds chirping outside my window. Looking at my alarm clock, it was around 6:00 a.m. It was Saturday, so I could sleep until the afternoon, but I felt curious about the book that had suddenly appeared on my bed last night.
Strangely, I felt surprisingly good, as if something good had happened to me. I did a light exercise and immediately picked up the book.
"Huh?"
A confused sound escaped my lips as I looked at the book. There wasn't just a single sentence on the first page anymore—there were more. I was sure it hadn't been like this before.
I lifted my gaze from the book to the door. It was closed—and locked too. So no one could have come in. I glanced at the window next. Also shut. And even if it hadn't been… who would sneak into someone's house just to write in an empty book?
Clearing my mind, I read the additional lines.
'Stories:
- The Poor Boy of the County of Cella
- The Sleepy Town of Pillowwick
- Mr. Andrew's Pet Shop
- The Sin of Albethra
- The Smiling Children
- The Prince'
"These names..."
A strange sense of nostalgia washed over me as I looked at the titles in the book. "Aren't these the stories Grandma used to read for me?"