MON LIVRE

1875

I rushed back to my apartment as fast as my legs could carry me, juggling my bag, a vanilla frappe, and a sandwich. My tiny apartment greeted me with its usual cozy warmth, and as I fumbled with the keys, I was met with a soft meow.

"Hey, Fiona," I smiled, bending down to greet my cat. Fiona was a sleek, snow-white beauty with piercing blue eyes that always sparkled with mischief. She brushed against my leg, her tail flicking in the air.

"Had a great time alone? Or did you sneak over to the neighbor's cat again? Max, wasn't it?" I chuckled, scratching behind her ears as she purred in response. I made my way through the narrow hallway, flopping onto the couch without even bothering to change. I was too excited to care. The journal in my bag called to me, and I could hardly wait to dive into it.

The vanilla frappe and sandwich sat forgotten on the table as I pulled out the book. There were literal goosebumps on my skin as I ran my fingers over the cover, feeling its age beneath my fingertips. The pages were smooth, the kind of soft that only time could create, as if the journal itself had soaked in the essence of the hands that once wrote in it.

MON LIVRE.

Such a simple, understated title. Yet it had already captivated me.

I opened the journal carefully, inhaling that familiar old-book scent, and there it was-the first entry. The handwriting was elegant but firm, and my heart skipped a beat as I began reading.

October 3rd, 1875

Mother has finally worn me down. After weeks of her endless nagging, I've decided to give in and start this diary. She claims it will help me "capture my thoughts" and "keep a record of my days," as if I've nothing better to do. I suppose she means well, but her persistence has been exhausting. Every morning, before I leave for the fields, and every evening before I rest, she asks the same thing: "Did you start your diary yet?"

So here I am, writing in this little book. But if I am to do this, I shall do it my way. I've decided to write in English. No one in this house knows the language, and that's just the way I want it. I suppose it is my own form of rebellion-if I must document my thoughts, at least they will remain my secret.

Father and my brothers mock me for even considering this, but I find a strange sort of satisfaction in knowing that these pages will hold things no one else can read. What's more, it feels... freeing. I am not sure why, but as I write this now, I realize I can say anything here. There's a comfort in it.

Mother said that keeping a diary is a way of preserving oneself, of ensuring that some part of you lives on, even when you are long gone. I find it a morbid thought, to be honest. But perhaps, in time, I'll understand what she means.

For now, I'll humor her. And maybe-just maybe-I'll find some enjoyment in this after all.

I paused, the words sinking into me. There was something about this entry, written nearly 150 years ago, that felt so personal. This man-this stranger from a forgotten century-was opening up in a way he hadn't anticipated. I could imagine him, sitting by candlelight, secretly penning his thoughts while his family busied themselves in other rooms, oblivious to the world he was creating in these pages.

I turned the next page, eager to see where his journey would take him, and wondering what secrets this forgotten journal might reveal.

AN: Hey, Thank you for reading. If you find any mistakes please do let me know. Comment your thoughts. TPWK 😇