MON LIVRE

Journaling

October 4th, 1875

I had a strange thought today. Mother told me that writing a diary was a way to make sure a part of me lived on. That one day, long after I am gone, these words would remain. I laughed at the idea at first, but the more I thought about it, the more I realized—this little diary may very well outlive me.

So, in a sense, it’s like writing to a person. Someone—maybe you—who is reading this now. I suppose that makes us companions of sorts, across time and space. Let’s make this memorable, shall we?

Let me introduce myself, in case you’re wondering who I am. My name is Marchel Lucas Lavigne. I live in a quiet village, not far from the riverbanks, where the air is fresh and the sky is wide. My family has farmed this land for generations. I work with my father and brothers, but I have bigger plans. I intend to join the army soon—there’s something about the call of duty that pulls at me.

My family? Well, there’s Mother, of course. She’s the one responsible for this little journal of mine. My father is a gruff man, practical to the core, and my brothers… well, they tease me mercilessly. I suppose that’s the way of brothers.

And you, whoever you are, I wonder about you. I wonder what kind of life you lead. Do you live in a village, as I do? Or perhaps in a grand city with bustling streets? What’s your family like? Are you reading this because you stumbled upon it by chance, or were you looking for something—an escape, maybe, like I am?

It’s odd to think that these words, written by my hand, might connect us. But if you are reading this, know that you are sharing a piece of me—a piece that has long since passed, but remains in these pages.

I hope, one day, I’ll know your story, too.

Until then, Marchel Lucas Lavigne

I paused again, fingers lingering on the soft edge of the page. A wave of warmth washed over me as I imagined Marchel, hundreds of years ago, wondering who might read his words. And now here I was, sitting in my apartment, his words speaking directly to me, bridging the gap between centuries. It was almost as if we were having a conversation.

I looked at Fiona, who was now curled up beside me, her soft fur rising and falling with each peaceful breath. The idea of writing my own diary, like Marchel, began to take root in my mind. I had a blank journal somewhere—something I had bought ages ago but never got around to using.

I stood up and rummaged through the shelf until I found it. The cover was smooth, with a pale blue design, and it felt cool in my hands. I sat back down on the couch, Fiona stirring slightly as I picked up a pen.

With a deep breath, I opened to the first page.

October 10th, 2023

I don’t usually write in diaries, but today feels special. I found an old journal—someone’s personal story from 1875—and it made me realize how powerful words can be, even when the writer is long gone. So, maybe this is my way of doing the same.

My name is Darcy Anne Arno. I live in a cozy little apartment with my cat, Fiona. She’s white and mischievous and loves to curl up next to me whenever I’m reading. I work in the city, but I dream of doing more. For now, though, this is where I am, and it’s not so bad.

If anyone is reading this one day, I hope you feel what I’m feeling right now—a sense of connection to someone who lived in a different time. Maybe our lives are completely different, but maybe they’re not. Either way, welcome to my little world.

Until next time, Darcy Anne Arno.

I closed the journal, a smile tugging at my lips. I wasn’t sure if I’d keep up with this, but it felt good to put something down. Fiona nuzzled my hand, and I pet her gently, feeling a sense of calm wash over me. Maybe this was the start of something new—something special. Just like Marchel, I had begun my own little story, tucked away in the pages of a journal.

And who knows? Maybe one day, someone would read it and wonder about me, just as I had wondered about him.

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