Prologue
A small child, probably about seven or eight years old, paced carefully up the wooden steps, carrying a small, brown, hardback notebook. It abruptly stopped mid-walk and the book was lifted up into the air, sailing across the room, and landed with a loud thump on an empty chair infront of him.
Stillness remained for a few minutes, until the booked cracked open, and the air sifted through the many words and statements that occupied the sheets.
The spine snapped shut, and the infant stared blankly, waiting for a response.
“This gives me nothing.” the voice hissed.
“The voices told me everything and I wrote it down.”
“They obviously didn’t tell you enough.”
The hall went back to its quiet self.
The boy blinked, and turned to the elderly man standing beside the wooden seat. He didn’t look too happy about his job, whatever it was. He didn’t look happy at all; especially when the book started to slowly open again.
The man’s gloomy expression was the only thing that distracted the boy from the rumbling ground below him, before the child disappeared into the book.
The closed book flew swiftly into the man’s wrinkly hands.
“Throw it away, Oliver.”
