kylabeck
I don't know how long I stared at the old journal. It felt like hours, long enough for every one of the cracks in its leathery surface to ingrain itself in my mind. I ran a hand along its worn spine, knowing that if I opened it, everything would chance.
You'd almost have thought it was romantic, standing there on that grassy hill with nothing but starlight illuminating the tall grasses and flowers that surrounded us. It would have been, actually - romantic, that is. If it weren't, of course, for the body that lay twisted before us, face-up and already stiffening.