Soup Spoon |Discontinued|

| Prologue |

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            Dear Diary,

            You were one of the last gifts I received from my father before he passed. I haven't... wanted to use you until now, but seeing as we're starting a new leaf, I think it's best to start recording my day-to-day in you. Not to mention, something has been troubling me, and Aiden said it's best to write it out.

            When I was a young child, I used to have a recurring dream that plagued my imagination every waking hour of every day. In it, I was running through an unfamiliar woods, lush with the rich green foliage of spring. This in itself wasn't alarming, but the eerie silence blanketing the space was. Despite it being a time for all sorts of woodland critters to come out and forage through the new growth, there was not a single sound in the whole space except for my labored breathing and the leaves crunching beneath my heavy footfalls.

            After what felt like hours of running in circles, getting all sorts of twigs and brambles stuck in my dress and hair, evening light would shine ahead through the trees; a clearing of some sort, in which I could see many figures dancing. I could never get a good look at them, only their silhouettes were visible, shadows writhing in the coming darkness to strange, beautiful music. Then, right as I'm getting close to breaking through the trees, my foot would catch on something on the ground and I would trip, only to wake up with a kick of the legs from the feeling of falling. My older sister Deirdre, with whom I shared a bed, would often complain about me tossing and turning all night to my mother, and eventually started sleeping with our eldest sister Adelaide because of it.

            When I turned the age of seven and we moved away from our grandparents' farm to my mother and father's new one, the dreams suddenly stopped. In fact, all of my dreaming stopped, and from then on I've always had a deep, fitful slumber. Until now, that is.

            My father passed away several months ago, and ever since my mother has been unfit to take care of us. She has fallen incredibly ill from her grief, and our grandparents have insisted that we sell the land and move back to their farm so they can help us with our younger siblings, and we can help them with the farm work now that they're getting older. My big brother Aiden and his twin sister Adelaide, now the heads of the household with my mother being indisposed, agreed with them. Soon enough the land was sold, our belongings were packed, and just yesterday we arrived back at the small town of Wisteria Willows.

            Last night, I had the dream again, Diary. It was like the dreaming had never stopped; it was so clear and real, yet so ethereal and strange. It has been a long, long time since I had dreamed, but I remember the dream so vividly that I knew immediately that this one was different. It started out the same, with me running like always through the unfamiliar woods for hours and hours on end. I have to admit it was easier now that I wear trousers instead of dresses, my curly hair a shorter mess than the long one it used to be, but that wasn't the only thing that was different. 

            The feeling of the dream itself had changed, warped somehow. Instead of a wonderful exploration, it was an anxiety inducing search. The eerie, yet kind of comfortable silence from before, was now a piercing, heavy thing that made the hairs on my arms and neck rise. Eventually, the now-familiar clearing came into view with its many dancing figures and tinkling music; it's lovely laughing and it's many shifting lights. Instead of feeling wonder, I felt relief, and I headed towards it immediately, trying to slow my pace because I knew that I would inevitably trip and fall and the dream would end. My legs would not slow though; I had no control of my body, as is the way with most dreams.

            As I neared the edge of the clearing, I felt my foot catch on the familiar obstruction and I felt myself fall, but this time it was different. Instead of waking up in my new bed to the sound of my siblings rousing with the rooster, a strong arm snaked its way around my waist and caught me mid-fall, my face only a foot away from the ground. A warm, soft hand placed itself against my shoulder, steadying me as I was righted, and a delightfully beautiful chuckle met my ears and made them ring with its wonder.

            Then I awoke to Aiden shaking my shoulder with a yawn, asking me to come with him to start collecting firewood for the day ahead. I could only lay there for a moment and stare at him with wide, sleep crusted eyes, absolutely bewildered. I didn't get to see who'd caught me; I had awoken far too quickly after being caught in my fall, but I knew for certain I had never heard a chuckle as bewitching as that. I'm at a loss of what to do, but I know I need to put it out of my mind for now. I start school tomorrow, I'll be working on the farm every other moment, and my eighteenth birthday is mere months away. I have much more important things to worry about now than a silly little dream from when I was small, even if it is strange.

             At least, that's what I keep trying to tell myself Diary. Over and over again I told myself that as I threw on my coat and scarf and headed out into the frosty, snow blanketed morning. I found that the dream kept pushing itself to the forefront of my thoughts though, no matter how hard I tried to focus on the bitter cold.

            There has to be a reason that the dreams decided to come back now when we're back in the Willows, right? I can't help but get a shiver up my spine at the thought of what might await me in this now-unfamiliar town Diary, but I guess we're going to find out soon enough together.

            That's all for today. I need to get the rest of the day's work done, and then as good a sleep as I can manage before my schooling starts again tomorrow. Back home I was home schooled by father, so I've never been in a school house of any kind. I'm kind of nervous, but I pray that I make a new friend tomorrow. Thank you for listening to me, Diary! I will speak to you again soon, I'm sure.

            Sincerely,

            Sampson H. Whittager.

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