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The next morning, I went to check on her. The room I’d given her was empty, and I couldn’t find her anywhere in the entire house. I went outside and looked for her, shouting her name into the forest and down the hillside. I called at her for hours, but couldn’t find her. I rushed back to the house and opened the book. After a little while, I’d written that she had been out picking flowers, coming back in the evening. And as I wrote, it happened. In the evening, she returned with a lovely bunch of flowers that she gave me. I had written that she came back with flowers, that we both had some supper, and then went to bed. Everything that happened in between, our conversation and the fact that she gave me the flowers, seemed to be under no influence by the book, and I was glad. The next couple of years, I didn’t dare to stop writing about her, even for a day. One thing I could never control was her emotions. But luckily, she grew to love me, and I loved her. I considered her a daughter, but I kept the book hidden from her at all times, to prevent her from being scared. She found it once, but it was before I’d written about the next day, so to her it appeared like a journal or diary, just like I’d told her. But as the years went by, so did the pages. Even though I’d write as little as possible about every day, leaving the blanks for us to fill out, the pages were filled too fast. And as I had only one page left, I knew I’d have to do something. The only problem was that I didn’t know what. However, I tried the only thing I could think of, namely starting a new book. So I went down to the village and bought one, price wasn’t an issue this time. It was almost ten years since I had first met Cassandra, and so I wanted to celebrate. She 73

Walkingblind Magazine

had become a beautiful young woman, and I loved her immensely. I wrote in the last page of the book as I sat up that evening. I wrote about a wonderful day, a day when we both laughed and talked about the last ten years. We re-lived all the good times, and we went picking flowers. We went down to the village for the fair, feasting on the delicious food they had there and playing all the silly games they arranged. Then I baked her a cake when we got back home, and we read some old fairytales at night. I know she was a bit old for it, but she still loved it when I read for her. But then, as she went to sleep after that wonderful day, I had to go to my room and start the new book. As I wrote about the next day, I shivered. I had no idea whether or not it was going to work. I wrote that she woke me up in the morning, and that we both walked in the forest picking berries, having a fun day. As I was finished writing, I smiled. I was almost sure that it was going to work. It felt good. But the next day, I woke up when I heard her scream. That was just a few minutes ago. The new book wasn’t working. She was gone… Oh god how I missed her already. I could still see her red dress floating in the water. I thought about how my life was before Cassandra entered it. I was a lonely writer, out of ideas and with no reason to go on from day to day. So I did what I felt I had to. I followed Cassandra, the light of my life. I jumped. For a moment, I thought I saw her standing by the window above. She was waving at me, as she faded away. Then I hit the water.

WalkingBlind Art and Literature Magazine  
WalkingBlind Art and Literature Magazine  

Opening the Mind's eye to art yet unseen!