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The air in the room seemed to hold its breath as Jungkook, fueled by equal parts anticipation and trepidation, turned the fragile pages to unveil the untold stories within.
As soon as he read the first line, he rushed out. He knew where he needed to go.
He did because on the first page inside the diary, the heading read- 'Riverdale's Time-Worn Secrets'
Just how much more did he not know about the road, the ticking hands of his watch a constant reminder of time's enigma. With each passing second, Jungkook's curiosity grew. It was 7:35. Instead of crossing the road as he had done countless times before, with the newfound resolution, his instincts guided him to walk along the street.
The Riverdale Shrine loomed ahead, a silent witness to whatever he was to uncover. As he stood before it, a sense of reverence mingled with an unspoken anticipation, wondering what secrets the shrine held.
As Jungkook stepped into the hallowed space of the Riverdale Shrine, the world around him seemed to pulse with a quiet energy. The ticking hands of his watch, once a relentless reminder of temporal confinement, continued their rhythmic dance. At 7:40, a significant milestone in the landscape of his existence, the seconds pressed forward without the familiar echo of repetition. Nothing stopped. Nothing went black. He was still where he was.
The shrine, with its timeless aura, cradled him in its sacred embrace. The air, thick with the scent of ancient incense, seemed to carry the weight of unspoken secrets.
7:41. Oh how he would've given anything to see this moment. And now he was living it.
The diary cradled in his hands, its leather-bound exterior weathered by the passage of years, held a silent promise. Jungkook, still basking in the residual aura of the Riverdale Shrine, felt a subtle weight to the volume. It was not just a collection of his father's daily entries but maybe, just maybe a portal to Jungkook's escape.
With a calm yet curious demeanor, he opened the book to the first pages, where his father's name lingered. The diary, a silent keeper of bygone moments, welcomed him into the script of his father's life. His eyes traced the familiar handwriting, a bridge between generations, as he settled into reading the first page-
