DAYDREAMER

PROLOGUE

22/12/2009

There's an old saying, used by the people around the far parts of the town, "Little strokes fell great oaks," they say, used by the "wisest" of our men to ensure us that our efforts do have the potential to create remarkable things, and all that is needed to achieve such is patience... Patience, a word I say with contempt; of the many virtues I had, I couldn't swear that it was one I was familiar with or was fond of in the slightest. for my sake, atleast. I would always refute these sayings with brash statements like "Life was too unpredictable to be patient," or other such drivel that provoked responses of disdain from my peers. My patience, moreso "Lack of", has resulted in a fair share of, unfortunate situations in my time; however, I tend to show oblivion to such events. Up until recently, that is.

09:00

The chimes of the clocktower bell echoed through the walls of my study as I worked. On days like this, I saw myself traversing through the streets of the town square and taking in the tranquility it has to offer, I often arise before the city, and the silence that comes from its dormancy brings a smile to my face. Today, however, would be different, my parents had insisted that I visited them for the Christmas break, I was reluctant, but gradually accepted their request. Admittedly, being quite a reserved person, with the concept of companionship being fairly 'alien' to me, I'd have rather tarried in my office and worked on my projects during the holidays, I had a lot of business to attend to. Unfortunately, I doubt that would be a possibility for me now. The plane I was taking was set to depart at 9pm, a fair bit of time to run errands and potentially buy a gift from the markets. Perhaps... I raise the blinds, inviting light into the otherwise nebulous room. Adjusting to the light, I gaze outside to see the landscape covered in a thick sheet of white, dotted with a variety of distinct colours from bunting and market decorations, snow is by no means an uncommon sight at this time of year, especially not in this town, however, It was an enjoyable scene to behold nonetheless; It served as a faint reminder of my youth, when I used to frolic around in the snow with my old friends and family, the thought of it alone was surprisingly uplifting for me.

Grabbing my trench coat, hat and fiddling with my keys, I opened the front door. closing my eyes, I allow the gentle wintery breeze to flow through my hair as I step into the blue of the early morning. I shuffle my feet around, gazing at them with intrigue as they progressively got more encased in snow, regularly raising them to release pressure. I tread through the soft snow into the plaza, strolling past the townsfolk dressed in bright coats and hats, each in their own bubble, tending to their own business. Usually, on the weekends, the plaza is busier than usual; there are sales and offers that take place which attracts more customers than on the usual day, I keep a mental note to avoid it around these times with that in mind. However, I insisted to myself that a visit to the marketplace would keep me well stocked for when I return from my journey. Besides, the weather was nice, it wouldn't hurt to go for a stroll after my errands had been run. They were often very therapeutic.

10:30

As expected, the plaza was full of life, people were sitting down by the many cafés drinking hot chocolate and talking to each other, deep in conversation and enjoying each other's company. The ice rink was open, and skaters danced elegantly across it in a unique harmony, twirling and jumping with such intricacy. I found myself staring at them for a while with great interest before continuing my journey. I've lived here ever since I moved out of the family house to study abroad, unfamiliar with the sights then, very well versed now, I knew the plaza like the back of my hand thanks to the townsfolk who were willing to show me the sights, despite my reticent manner at the time. After further trudging, I stood before a small dingy shop - one I did not recognize either – It was authentic, unlike any shop I had seen before. The bricks were mossy; the windows were dull and clouded, curtained with ivy and ferns. The door seemed to have outlived its time and swung awkwardly against the breeze. Above it sat a small sign, greying with age and half torn, the text in thick black paint reading the name "C's Curios." Its presence was unorthodox to say the least, despite this, my interest was piqued.