The journal sat on the shelf in the library, its plain cover unassuming among the more ornate books. But I knew what it held. I had read it cover to cover, absorbing every word of the person who had lived in this place long before us. Their name was never written, their face never described. But their observations were sharp, their love for the land evident on every page.
I found myself returning to the journal again and again, drawn by a connection I could not explain. It was as if the writer was speaking to me across time, telling me that this place had always been special, had always been a refuge for those who needed it.
Cassian noticed my obsession. "You have read that journal so many times you could recite it from memory."
"It is not just the words," I said. "It is the feeling beh
