The book was a light cerulean blue, the leather of the over still holding its shape despite how yellowed and aged the pages looked. I wiped off the fine layer of dust from the top and opened the book. The words were handwritten, going on to show how old this book may be. There was no author mentioned.
The handwriting was elegant, beautiful even. Swirling letters that leaned slightly to the right and big loops and arcs for the letters that needed them. Wanting to be comfortable while reading the book, I walked over to the singular couches near the huge windows that let in the afternoon sunlight. Taking a seat, I flipped through to the index. Three chapters. How odd for a book its size, there were a lot of pages to just be three chapters. Maybe because it was handwritten? Or perhaps whoever
