...Remember?

Amy picked up the book, the demonstrator, and placed it in her bag- an old computer one, simply because that was the closest empty bag she had. Reminds me of schooling days, don't you think? Arrgh, its Summer! dreaded talks of anything remotely academic-related are forbidden, how could I forget? Well, we have come to a point where Amy is taking directives from an unseen, unknown identity, it shouldn't bother you much if we have reached this very point in the first place. Before the half-broken zippers of the bag met each other, Amy could hear the sounds of scribbling again, just that this time it was at a much, much faster pace, going on for an extended period of time. Bollocks! Why can't this purported writer be decisive? Can't it all be written in one sitting?

Amy pulls out the book and parts the cover from the paper. On the first page, there were multiple sketches in blue ink, all scribbled over and dashed out in the same orange-reddish ink that crossed out the lines from the previous pages. Amy could make out what was drawn - it was her home's balcony. Assuming by the many arrows that pointed towards the sketch of the balcony, perhaps Amy should pay it a visit, just to be sure. 

Now, on the balcony. On the far edge of the city, the waking Mr sun could be seen. Birdsongs, melodious, foudroyant, crisp and sweet, they fill the air blown by the morning winds, cold, the ground was colder than the air, the breeze that blows from the passing of the previous night. Again, the sound of pens racing on paper could once be heard again. Within the book, a picture of the table and chair, conveniently in front of where Amy stood. Understandably she took a seat. The cushion- or should I say, the aftermarket-bought pillows used to cushion, were cold. It surely did not satisfy most bottoms. Amy laid the book down on the glass table, blocking the rays of morning sun striking. 

The scribbles, despite being written in ink, begun to erase themselves, as if in place of the fountain pens there was a vacuum for ink! In a brazenly fast pace, words after paragraphs after pages of words took their place. At first glance, it was a diary. Excusing the fact that I wish for the speed one puts idea's down into words, it was now simply a question of just not it's contents, but also its writer.

5/25

Today I wandered into the forest behind home. Instead of hiking up further like I used to, I continued walking forwards into the cliffside fields. It was wonderful. I made a new discovery. I look forward to coming back here with ⬛. She might like this place. After all, the blue skies here, they are so vibrant. 

On the paths of the roads, there are many lily flowers here, they are as white as the clouds itself. I really like them, they remind me of ⬛⬛ ⬛⬛⬛wear⬛⬛. I'm sure this place has much more to offer, I can feel it. 

Noon

We cycled around the hillside roads. It was a blast riding down from the top down to the roundabouts. ⬛and I had a blast. It was the school break after all, isn't it time to feel the summer wind blowing by your hair? We plan on visiting the hillside houses by feet. Certainly, those places neither of us had been to before. I await eagerly for what we would see there. 

Night

Dinner with parents as usual. 

Hmm... This seems to definitely be a diary, assumably written by someone of a younger age. Within the paragraphs however, there are entire sections completely blotted out in black. It wasn't even inked this time. Just pure black. The writer also seems to mention a certain someone, which along with her appearances and other bits and pieces information, are all blotted out. Assuming by the roundabouts, which are not far away from home, the writer lives close by. The events that took place in this entry, they must have taken place somewhere in the vicinity of this area. 

It might be a wild guess, but does the hillside outcrop, along with the blue skies, isn't this the same mountain outcrop behind of home? The one she visited in her dreams? It can't be... the roadsides weren't filled with lily flowers, as a matter of fact, they were completely barren, taken over by the wild grass. Plus, the hillside houses, perhaps those houses seen directly below the outcrop are the same ones referenced in the diary. Yeah, there is no other housing area in the vicinity. It has to be them.

scritch scritch

Soon enough, on a few pages behind the first diary entry, there were again scribbles of areas in the house. All of them slowly lead to the room in front of Amy's room. It was also scribbled out. That room used to be Amy's room, but after she went to middle school, she found the current room she resides in now is far more suitable as a place to study. Yeah, the walls are a different colour, but who cares about that? A good desk is a good desk.

Amy twists the doorknob to the room open. As she swings the door out of the way, she found that the room was completely nothing she remembered! A computer lay on the desk, papers scattered all over the table whilst books filled the shelves that were supposedly empty; there was even a full cup of water on the desk. It was almost as if somebody used the room prior to Amy's discovery. This can't be! Amy never had any siblings, nor would her parents suddenly use the room. It was simply used to store things that had no place in home, but none of them was to be seen now. 

Amy went to the desk and picked up a piece of paper, freshly written with the same indigo ink from the diary. It was a poem.