Page 14 - DeepRestFlipFinal

NICHOLAS BOOTHMAN
And Evelyn felt nothing. Or rather, she felt
everything and nothing all at once. A hollow ache, a
profound emptiness that echoed the silence in the
room.
She glanced at the small bookshelf in the corner.
Mallory’s eclectic collection. Poetry, philosophy,
graphic novels. And then, tucked away on the bottom
shelf, almost hidden, a slim, leather-bound volume. It
looked ancient, its cover worn, its pages yellowed.
She reached for it. No title on the spine. Just a
faded, almost illegible symbol etched into the front. A
swirling design, like a stylized eye or a spiraling
galaxy.
She pulled it out. It was heavier than it looked.
Not a book, she realized, but a chronicle, a collection
of handwritten notes, sketches, and what looked like
diagrams. The script was elegant, almost artistic, but
faded with age.
She flipped through the pages. It wasn’t English.
Or any language she recognized. A strange mix of
symbols and what looked like very old Latin.
What is this?
Mallory had been obsessed with obscure texts,
with forgotten histories, with anything that promised a
deeper understanding of the human condition. Evelyn
had often teased her about her "witchy" books.
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