Willow.

Eighteen Ninety-Five.

The young girl slowly slid the book out from the shelves of other books that sat patiently in the office, that one specifically struck her the most— with it's leather cover scattered with gold that once wrote something out, yet now, it's unknown what the book actually was from the cover. The only thing that could be readable was a date, nineteen eighty-five, and nothing else. There was no imprint of the name of the book. The leather was folded and messed up around the corners, but still withheld a soft touch to it. As the brunette opened it, her fingers grazed across crumpled paper that had ink blotched and spread from water, coffee stains and even blood lived on the creamy parchment. It still had no label, and the writing was a blur, it was almost like reading a faded memory.

With every turn, the red dots increased in size, more and more blood falling down onto the paper. Wait... That wasn't there before she opened the book. It's coming from her. The crimson liquid just kept increasing. Faster, faster, faster— her body felt heavy as she pressed up against the oak desk, her vision tunneling down to just the book in front. She couldn't read a single sentence of it. Someone called her name, it got louder, but she couldn't respond. What was her name? Her head was throbbing with torment and discomfort, her emotions surfacing every edge of her mind. The time, what's the time? Is it dark outside? Why does it feel like she's being pulled out of the world in front of her?

"Willow," yet another few knocks on her wooden door, around five or so.

She snapped out of it, her eyes opening wide just to be greeted by a wall, decorated with pink. Natural lighting flared into the little room from the white paned window, the sun almost directly across from her living space. Her mind and body were still half asleep and wavering between slumbering a little more or getting up, but that all stopped after a while of baseless, half awake thinking.

Right, that dream. Nineteen... Nineteen eighty... Oh, what was it? And just like that, gone. She couldn't even remember the feel of the book touching her pale hands.