MON LIVRE

Lake

October 5th, 1875

Today was filled with a sort of mundane magic. I rose before dawn, the sun peeking over the horizon like a shy child. The air was crisp, filled with the earthy scent of dew-kissed grass. I stepped outside, taking a moment to breathe in the cool morning air.

The fields were quiet as I made my way to the barn, where my brothers were already preparing the horses. As the first light of day broke, I couldn’t help but feel a surge of gratitude for this simple life. The rhythmic sounds of hooves on the ground, the distant cawing of crows, and the faint rustle of leaves filled my ears.

After breakfast, which consisted of hearty porridge and a slice of bread, we set off to plow the fields. The work was strenuous, but it was a labor of love. I found comfort in the rhythm of the plow and the warm sun on my back. My brothers joked and teased, their laughter echoing through the fields, but I often drifted into my thoughts, imagining distant lands and adventures beyond our village.

By midday, we paused for a short break. I took out my bread, enjoying the simple pleasure of food and the company of my family. As I munched on my meal, I found myself stealing glances at the horizon, where the river wound its way through the landscape, shimmering under the sun like a ribbon of silver.

Later in the afternoon, I took a moment to escape. I walked to the riverbank, where I sat on a weathered stone, dipping my toes into the cool water. It felt refreshing, and I closed my eyes, allowing the sounds of nature to envelop me. I wished I could hold onto this moment forever, just as I hoped to preserve my thoughts in these pages.

In the distance, I could see a group of children playing along the banks, their laughter mingling with the gentle rush of water. For a brief moment, I considered joining them, but the solitude felt too precious. Instead, I pulled out my diary, feeling an overwhelming urge to write about this day.

Today felt like a day pulled straight from the pages of a storybook. I decided to take my journal to the lake nearby, a place that always brought me peace. The weather was perfect—a gentle breeze kissed my cheeks, and the sky was a brilliant blue, dotted with fluffy white clouds.

I packed a small bag with my journal, a blanket, and a few snacks: a crisp apple, some cookies, and, of course, my vanilla frappe from yesterday. Fiona followed me to the door, her little paws padding softly on the floor, her curious eyes following my every move.

“Come on, you little adventurer!” I said, laughing as I scooped her up and placed her in my bag. She seemed to know we were going somewhere special, her whiskers twitching in excitement.

The walk to the lake was short, but every step felt magical. I could hear the soft lapping of the water against the shore as I approached, the sound mingling with the rustling leaves overhead. Once I reached the lake, I spread my blanket on the grass and settled down, letting Fiona out to explore.

As I opened Marchel’s journal, the words leaped off the page, and I found myself transported to his world. I couldn’t help but smile, imagining him sitting by the river, writing about his day just as I was about to do.

I flipped to a fresh page in my own journal and began to write about my visit to the lake.

Today, I visited the lake—a place that feels like a secret haven. The sun shines down, casting a warm glow over everything, and the water sparkles like a thousand tiny stars. Fiona is exploring, chasing after butterflies and enjoying the warm breeze. It’s delightful to see her so happy.

As I read Marchel’s words about his day, I found myself wondering what it would be like to join him in his time. Would we sit by the river together, sharing stories? Would he laugh at my modern ways? I can’t help but feel a connection to him through his words, a bond that transcends time and space.

There’s something comforting about knowing that he, too, found solace in nature. I can picture him in this very spot, feeling the same sun on his face, wondering about the future. I find myself wishing to know more about him—what he dreamed of, what adventures lay ahead for him.

The thought of writing my own stories, just as Marchel did, fills me with excitement. Perhaps, like him, I can capture the essence of my own days—my joys, my dreams, and the little things that make life special.

I look up from my journal and take a deep breath, savoring the scent of pine and the sound of water lapping at the shore. Fiona returns, plopping down next to me, her little paws muddy but her expression content.

“Hey there, partner,” I chuckled, scratching behind her ears. “Ready for more adventures?”

With a heart full of hope and a journal open in front of me, I continued to write, imagining what the next entry might bring. Marchel’s words inspired me, and I realized that perhaps my story was just beginning.

The day passed in a blissful haze, the sun beginning its descent as I penned my thoughts, allowing the gentle sounds of nature to guide my reflections. I felt grateful for this moment—two souls, centuries apart, finding connection through the art of writing.

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