Then my eye caught on this one book. Unlike the others, it didn’t have a title on its spine. With cracked, leather binding, It looked much older than its neighbors. Most were paperbacks from the 80s and 90s with lurid, colorful covers. But this one had gold embossing engraved into its matted, black leather. I took it down from the shelf, my eyes widening when I felt its cover—soft and unusually hairy, as if made from animal hair. Gold covered the pages’ edges, shining a bit in the dimming candle light flickering in the store. More gold in fine, wispy lines decorated the front and back covers in a frightening design. At first I thought it was an abstract pattern, but as I stared at it, I started to pick out shapes—not only twisty vines and wilting flowers, but animals with human faces, and sneaky looking little monsters. It was hard to see them at all through the delicate tracery, but if you looked closely enough, you'd catch an eye staring out at you, or a gleaming golden fang. Each one was different, and incredibly detailed. Thinking there had to be a title somewhere, I turned the book over and over again, searched its spine and looked for words hidden between the unusual figures. But nothing.
My first thought was, why would someone go to all this trouble to make a blank book? But then it hit me—of course! It was meant to be a diary. It felt like fate—that I had walked into this specific store on this specific day, and gone to this specific shelf, and found this beautiful book, right when I was in search of the perfect diary. Clearly I was destined to possess this book.
