The first thing Aiden did after getting settled into the house was to take care of the dog. The poor thing had been sitting innocently on the couch, its small frame still dirty from being out on the streets, looking at him with those wide, trusting eyes. Aiden couldn’t help but smile as he picked the dog up gently.

“Alright, buddy, let’s get you cleaned up.”

On his way to the house, he had picked up some basic dog supplies, including soap, shampoo, dog food, etc. The employee working at that shop was a tad over excited to show off the different uses of every shampoo, so he just told him to give me the best one.

The bathroom wasn’t far, and as he prepared the bath, the dog sat quietly on the floor, its head tilted slightly to the side as it watched him. Once the water was warm, Aiden gently placed the dog into the tub, half-expecting some resistance, but the little guy seemed perfectly content, even lifting his paws slightly, as if he knew exactly what to do.

The dog, Aiden soon learned, had a few odd habits. As he lathered the soap through its matted fur, the dog would puff out its cheeks, blowing small bubbles of air from its nose whenever Aiden poured water over its head. And when Aiden scrubbed around its ears, the dog would tilt its head back dramatically, almost like it was enjoying the sensation a little too much.

“You’re a bit of an oddball, aren’t you?” Aiden laughed, watching as the dog blinked lazily, its eyes half-closed, clearly enjoying the pampering.

When the bath was done and the dog was clean, Aiden wrapped it in a large towel, drying its fur as best he could. The dog emerged looking much smaller and fluffier than before, its coat now a soft, creamy white. It shook itself off once Aiden let it go, doing a little dance on the tiles that left wet paw prints everywhere.

“You’re really something,” Aiden muttered with a grin as the dog bounced over to the living room, trotting happily toward the kitchen where Aiden had set out a bowl of dog food.

The dog sniffed at the food and hesitated for a moment before eating it with small, precise bites, as if it was still a little unsure of its new surroundings.

While the dog ate, Aiden rummaged through the kitchen cupboards, trying to find something to eat for himself. He opened one cabinet after another, but every one of them was either empty or stocked with things he had no interest in. Eventually, he found a container of oatmeal—something his grandfather had apparently been fond of.

Aiden grimaced. Oatmeal had never been his thing. Of course Grandpa liked this, he thought with a smirk. That’s probably why he stocked up on it. He set the oatmeal back in the cabinet and made a mental note to do a grocery run. There was absolutely nothing worth eating in the house.

With a sigh, he closed the cabinets and scratched his head, remembering he had a bag of snacks in the truck. At least that’ll hold me over.

As Aiden turned to head outside, the dog, who had been happily munching on its food moments earlier, immediately abandoned the bowl and trotted after him.

“No, no, you stay,” Aiden said, pointing to the food bowl. But the dog looked up at him with big, imploring eyes, its tail wagging softly. There was no way it was going to stay behind.

Aiden sighed, unable to resist. “Fine, you win. Come on.”

The dog followed him out the front door, hopping alongside him like it had known him forever. Aiden chuckled to himself, wondering how he had gone from taking care of only himself to suddenly being responsible for a little dog that seemed more attached to him than he expected.

The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

As they reached the truck, Aiden grabbed the bag of snacks from the passenger seat and threw it over his shoulder. The dog, now sitting attentively by his feet, wagged its tail in approval. Just as Aiden closed the door, his phone buzzed in his pocket.

He pulled it out and saw the name flashing on the screen: Dad.

Aiden stared at the phone for a moment, his thumb hovering over the answer button. His father had remarried years ago, and while he had two half-sisters from that marriage, he wasn’t close to them. He hadn’t really spoken to his father much since the divorce, and the calls, when they did come, always felt forced. They weren’t close. They hadn’t been for a long time.

He contemplated picking it up, but something held him back. After a few seconds, he let it go to voicemail, the phone’s buzz fading into silence. A wave of unease settled in his chest, one he was familiar with but never really addressed. It wasn’t just his father. Aiden realized, with a hollow pang, that he wasn’t close to anyone anymore. Not really. The last time he’d felt connected to someone was probably... his grandfather.

With a sigh, Aiden slid the phone back into his pocket. The relationship with his father had always been complicated, and today wasn’t the day he wanted to untangle it.

Instead, he reached into the snack bag, pulled out a bag of chips, and tore it open. He found an old plastic glove at the bottom of the snack bag—his habit of not wanting to get his fingers greasy while eating snacks was something that had always made his friends laugh. He slid the glove onto one hand, then popped a chip into his mouth with the other.

The dog, now sitting at his feet, looked up expectantly, its nose twitching at the smell of the food. Aiden chuckled and offered a plain biscuit from the bag, which the dog happily accepted.

With the chips in one hand and the dog now curled up contentedly at his feet, Aiden sat back on the couch and turned his attention to the small leather-bound book he had taken from the box—the journal.

He flipped it open to a random page, the old paper crinkling beneath his fingers. His grandfather’s familiar handwriting sprawled across the pages, the ink still bold after all these years.

March 17th, 1985

Today, the library was quieter than usual. There’s something about this place, even after all these years, that still unsettles me, though I’ve grown used to its strange rhythms. The books here don’t just contain knowledge—they live. I’ve seen it happen many times, but I’m no closer to understanding it.

I’ve spent the better part of this week focused on one particular question: Where does magic truly come from? It’s a question that has haunted me for decades, yet every book I consult seems to offer only vague hints or cryptic philosophies. The ancient texts speak of the "Veil"—a barrier between worlds, between what we know and what lies beyond. Some volumes suggest that magic seeps through cracks in this Veil, drawn to those of us who are able to sense it. Others speak of magic as something woven into the fabric of existence itself, a force that binds all things together.

I’ve been returning to a particular set of tomes—The Codex Arcana—written centuries ago by a sorcerer who claimed to have touched the source of all magic. He writes of a place “beyond sight,” where magic flows freely, untamed and raw. I’ve read and re-read the passages, but they are maddeningly vague. The codex hints at rituals, specific alignments of time and space, but every attempt to replicate them has led to nothing. I can feel that I’m close, but the pieces aren’t falling into place.

There must be something I’m missing.

Anyways, Lyra managed to give me quite a laugh today. That girl is endlessly full of life, but she has no sense of her surroundings. I watched as she came bustling into the library, arms full of tea and pastries, only to trip over the edge of the rug—spilling everything in a spectacular fashion. The poor thing froze, wide-eyed, staring at the mess she had created. I couldn’t help it—I laughed. I hadn’t laughed like that in a while.

Of course, Thalia didn’t find it amusing. She gave Lyra one of her sharp glares and began scolding her on the spot. “You must be careful, Lyra,” she said, in that strict, measured tone she uses when trying to hide her irritation. “This is not a place for clumsiness.” Lyra blushed so deeply I thought her face might catch fire, stammering out apologies as she scrambled to clean up.

Thalia means well, of course. Her sternness hides a kindness I know is there. She watches over the house with the same care as I do, though she rarely shows it. She’ll never admit it, but I’ve seen the way she fusses over Lyra when she thinks no one’s looking. They balance each other, in a way.

I wonder, sometimes, if the house’s magic has influenced all of us. It’s as though we’re all connected to it, bound by something we can’t quite see. The library remains at the center of it all—always watching, always waiting. I have spent my life trying to understand it, but there are times when I feel it is watching me, as much as I am studying it.