I picked up a book. It was lying on the table. The only seemingly living thing in this room, something that still resembled a rational, developed civilization. Dust, ruin, and overgrowth were all that remained of what once lived and flourished. I was holding something like an encyclopedia, full of illustrations depicting organisms or cells. I don’t know this language; perhaps it belongs to the Latin group. It is definitely educational or scientific literature. A strange feeling.
I flip through the book, stained with yellow patches and smelling of mold, trying to understand what it is about and why it was written. I feel as if I am falling into an unknown, alien, yet alluring past. It is the same feeling as looking at old black-and-white photographs of people I do not know, or rather, at old worn documents. Behind every page, every entry, there is an entire story, entire destinies. But it is just a book, one that once had many people working on it. The publication date, I think, is about 120 years ago, judging by the dates I have encountered here. It is a pity I do not understand a single word. I doubt the information in it will be useful to me, but it is intriguing.
The book was in a thick, solid hardcover with ornate embossing, the title written in beautiful cursive capital letters. The color was dark brown; I think it has darkened over time, and its original color was much lighter. Books like this are rare and expensive in my world. Such volumes could usually be found in libraries or in the possession of collectors. In most cases, modern times no longer produced books in this format, even encyclopedias or scientific works. Only rare editions existed, like gift versions. Judging by its appearance, typeface, absence of photographs, and abundance of illustrations, it could be assumed it was printed at a time when books were generally rare and each one was created as a work of art. And it was also very heavy.
I found this place by chance, as with many others. In this abandoned world, remnants of civilization rot everywhere, overgrown with branches, plants, and mold. Nothing has impressed me as much as this latest discovery. It evokes curiosity. And still, why was it lying here, untouched by anyone? Why was it simply on the table in this empty room with crumbling walls, where birds and insects move about? As if someone, like me, left it as a marker or perhaps a sign for me.
Judging by the layer of dust and the way mold had woven around it like a cocoon of mycelium, yet considering the relative integrity of the paper, it must have been left here at least a year ago. At least. And what should I do now? Maybe it has been here for five years, or even just one—there is no guarantee that the person who left it intact is still alive.
Well, I will take it with me, but I need to leave something in its place. Who knows, maybe they will come back. I decisively opened my worn backpack. Hm, I need all my things; each item helps me. I will write a message on the table. Or no. I will carve it into a wooden stem and seal it with clay. No, wood may rot or be damaged by insects. God, I will just scratch it into the table. It has not decayed, so it should still last.
I outlined a neat rectangle—the place where the book had been—and began to think about what to draw. How to depict “thank you.” Nothing came to mind except a sun. Making the circle was difficult. I do not have a compass. But I used a stick: one end was placed in the center of the imagined circle, and I held it with my finger while the other end marked the outline. In essence, the stick acted like the hand of a clock.
It was very important to make it straight and neat; it would definitely show my level of development. I made the rays proportional and even as well. I hope the person was not suffering from sunburn and will interpret my message correctly.
Author’s text translated into English using AI
