Once upon a time, a kingdom grew, flourished and prospered.

The book was on a rickety wooden table in a dusty, abandoned room. It was well-aged, having weathered through innumerable seasons. At the time of its creation, perhaps it had been a magnificent thing with glossy leather covers, silk-bound pages and crisp golden letters embossed on its spine. However, that had been a long time ago, and now it was merely a battered, tattered relic in a room of artifacts that was lost in time.

Once upon a time, a dragon guarded over his shining hoard.

Once upon a time, the wizards held true power.

Once upon a time, the fair folk walked freely on the earth.

The book could faintly recall a time when it was feared and coveted by men. It was sought after because its pages held priceless knowledge dating from the very time of the world’s creation. It was a diary; a journal; a chronicle; a record of the world, during the time when characters of legends, myths and fairytales were corporeal forms that walked the earth and did the deeds which had laid down the foundation stones of their stories.

It was a book of tales. Every life is a story, and it was the book’s task to store them and preserve them as fragments of the world’s history. There were stories to tell and stories to write, and in time it would escape the confines of this dusty old attic. The book could wait. It had all the time in the world.

Once upon a time, in the shadows lurked twisting creatures of no form or shape.

Once upon a time, dreams were at one with reality.

A gentle breeze drifted in from a crack in the shutters, stirring up motes of dust in the silent room. A cloud briefly shielded the sun, and a faint shape flickered slightly in a darkened corner. The same gust of wind toyed playfully with the worn cover of the book, and managed to ease it open. It ghosted over the thin parchment pages, causing them to flip over each other with soft rustling noises. The pages continued turning rapidly until a torn piece revealed itself. Its tattered end flapped loosely in the wind, feebly fighting the old binding that held it down and prevented it from seeking out its missing half. The words on the page, if those faded smudges could be termed as such, were indecipherable, as they had been for times past and in times to come.

It is the Book of Tales. It is the Keeper of the World’s Memory and of every story there ever was. But it, too, has its own story to tell – a story that spans the past, the future, the present and all time in between. It is the first and last story – a timeless legend sealed in that lost half-page. For the time of the book’s restoration draws close…

So:

There was a book.

And there was a story.

Once again upon a time...

Low Yiting

Not long after, it had been presented to an old man. He looked odd, with a pair of frameless spectacles perched on his nose, curious eyes peering out from behind them. He was wizened, frail shaking hands which were extraordinarily steady when he held the book. The book felt a rush of a strange sensation flood it as the old man touched it. From that moment on, it knew it was something special.

The long flowing beard of the man brushed lightly on the leather covers as the old man bent eagerly over it, fingers stroking the embossed letters on its spine. "The Book Of Tales", came the excited whisper, quavering, as a finger came to flip open the cover.

It felt the scratch of a quill as black script flowed over the first page, forming letters, words, a title. It had a name now, an identity, a purpose. Satisfied, the old man got up, hobbling towards the window. Soft sunlight streamed in, casting dancing shadows on the pages of the book as he drew the curtains. Shadows played on the crisp parchment, performing a dance, specially made to welcome the arrival of this new book, telling a story, a story of its own, the very first to be recorded in its pages.

A soft hesitant knock came at the door.

"Ah, yes yes. She's here. Finally," He muttered, a small smile playing on his lips. He hobbled, as fast as his aching joints would allow him. Instead of going to the door, he went to the table first, picking up the book carefully. He brushed a hand over it, picking off invisible lint.

A knock came again, more insistent this time.

"Yes, yes," he called, in that wavering tone. He hurriedly placed the book on the shelf, hiding it behind other worn tomes. Having ensured that it was not easily visible, he hastened to the mahogany door.

Reaching out a trembling hand, he grasped the ornate door knob in an unusually firm grip. With a click, the door opened to reveal the visitor.

"You..." He breathed. "It's you."

Casatrina Lee / 414 / Hadley

"It's you... it's you... it's you. Well, I never..." whispered the old man in quiet rapture. "Oh, come in, come in..." So saying, he ushered the visitor in and closed the door behind her lightly. "Sit down."

The visitor shook her head vehemently and looked at the man with doleful eyes as her lips pursed; an apologetic yet defiant look. The old man sighed and took a seat himself.

"You haven't been around in a while, good dear."

This agitated another response, for she hurriedly pressed her hands into the old man's palms and patted them gently. She gave an encouraging smile and, her mouth forming an 'O', gestured towards the rest of the room with a sweep of her arm. The girl's gaze fell on the old man once again, an eyebrow raised upon making eye contact.

"What?" The old man coughed. The hairs of his beard had gone awry. Wrinkled fingers reached up to rearrange the hairs while he continued, "Well, the books have their own ways of finding themselves in my hands and the words have their way of weaving the stories to fill those empty jackets. But now, now, what exactly do you want?" His free hand landed with a clap against his right knee.

Deft fingers fluttered through the air, forming actions that mimicked the reading of some kind of book, before her forearms came to rest, crossed over her breast, hands cupping her shoulders in an exaggerated embrace. For that moment, the girl's face seemed to shine, the joy spreading further across her face with the appearance of a wistful smile. Then she deflated with an inaudible sigh as though the charade had exhausted her greatly.

But the old man understood her perfectly.

"The new book? My book? Is that what you want? Oh, I'm right, aren't I..." muttered the man as he tapped his nose thoughtfully with his forefinger.

The girl turned around to face the old man and lifted a shoulder, eyes shifting to peek at the ceiling as she attempted a nonchalant look.

"No."

Immediately, her eyes became a shade darker and her face assumed a more serious look.

"A 'no' is a 'no'. I do have my own reasons, of course, good dear. Good ones, at that..."

Candice Ho / 412 / Buckle House