Friday, June 19, 2009

~*+Mysterellyne +*~ (Part 4)

Where had it come from? It certainly hadn't been there last night.

Mysterellyne's eyes trained upwards to the old bookshelf in her room, which was right in front of the piece of paper. It must have fallen down from there, thought Mysterellyne.

The bookshelf had been there ever since Mysterellyne was born. And it had been there when her great-grandmother was born. It was well-crammed with books that looked as if nobody had ever bothered to read. Dusty old books with dog's-ears and titles in old-fashioned writing.

Mysterellyne, although quite a bookworm, had never bothered to touch these books. The bookshelf was simply placed in her room because there was no other space left for it in her house. Being the only daughter, Mysterellyne's bedroom was much bigger than the average teenager's room. In fact, it was about the size of two-and-a-half classrooms.

There were other bookshelves in her room, of course. And she had finished all the other books in her room, all except for these. The old, old books just looked too uninviting.

Mysterellyne picked up the piece of paper. It seemed to be part of a page of some book at first sight. She squinted to see the faded, loopy handwriting.

"forget his eyes when he looked at me through the raindrops. His eyes spoke to me as his lips had never did."

That was all.

Mysterellyne stared at it blankly, but her curiosity was aroused. She began to look closely at the old books on the shelf for the first time in her life. She soon discovered the reason of the torn page. Some lice were on the bookshelf!

Luckily, there were only two or three. Maybe they hadn't notified their family members yet. There was still hope that the book which this page was torn from (or rather nibbled from) was not too badly spoilt. Besides, Mysterellyne was a clean and tidy girl, so the lice couldn't have been there for a long time.

After hurriedly spraying insectide over the entire bookshelf, Mysterellyne examined each of the books' title carefully. Mostly were about old medicine. Some were cook-books. And all of them looked exceedingly boring.

Mysterellyne was just about to give up when she saw it.

A small, thick notebook.

Acting impulsively, she gingerly took it out with the tips of her fingers. She turned the first page carefully, afraid of tearing the old paper, and also afraid of disturbing more dust.

When she saw the writing on the first page, she knew.

It was her great-great-grandmother's name written there.

And it was a diary.