> April 14th
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> Dear Diary,
>
> As the sun peeks through the curtains, my morning unfolds like the gentle opening of a well-loved book, familiar and comforting. My maids help me dress, their hands as soft as the morning light, and soon I am seated at the breakfast table with my dear parents. Their conversation, light and caring, is the melody to my quiet morning symphony.
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> After breakfast, I tend to the garden, my sanctuary of blooms and fragrances. Here, among the roses and lavender, magic weaves through my fingers like threads of light. Each morning, I use gentle enchantments to coax the flowers into bloom and guide the vines along their trellises. Gardening, empowered by the subtle art of magic, is not just a hobby but a personal dialogue with nature, and it brings me immense peace and a sense of connection to this world.
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> However, last night brought an unusual twist to my routine. As I was preparing for bed, a slip of the foot led to a jarring tumble, and as my head met the soft carpet, a flood of memories from another life washed over me. It was a life lived fully, brimming with joy and the inevitable sorrows that lace the years. I remember my children—how I miss them! Their laughter and energy, I wonder how they fare now in that distant world. And my dear husband, who stood by my side through every storm and sunny day, his absence is a silent ache in my heart.
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> This morning, as if the memories weren’t disorienting enough, I found a masked man in a dark cloak sitting quietly in my room. His presence was startling, yet he seemed almost a part of the room’s shadows. He introduced himself simply, stating he was here to assist me if I needed anything. But what could I possibly need? My life here, though simpler and quieter than the one I remember in flashes, is fulfilling. When life gives you lemons, indeed, you make lemonade—and I have grown quite fond of the taste.
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> He calls himself Cedric, and though his manner is reserved, there is a kindness in his eyes that belies his somber appearance. I don’t feel threatened by his presence; rather, I am curious about the reasons behind his arrival. For now, I shall keep an open mind, for the garden isn’t the only place where new seeds can be sown and new stories can begin.
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> April 18th
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> Dear Diary,
>
> A few days have passed since Cedric, the cloaked guardian, entered my life, bringing with him an aura of mystery and quiet strength. He introduced himself to my family as my guard, and to my delight, everyone, including my dear parents, has welcomed him with open arms. It is comforting to see him accepted so warmly; it makes his presence here feel all the more right.
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> Cedric has taken to patrolling the manor daily, a routine he describes as precautionary, to ensure there are no potential dangers lurking. It’s a strange thought, really, considering the peaceful life we lead here. But his diligence is somehow reassuring, and it adds an element of safety to our serene existence.
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> Still, I often suggest that Cedric might find some joy or distraction in participating in my daily activities rather than just observing from a distance. He holds himself apart, building a wall between himself and the world, perhaps because he knows his stay with us is temporary.
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> I continue with my daily activities, and sometimes, when I invite friends over, I notice the girls casting curious glances his way.
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"Oh, Patricia, even behind that mask, one can tell your guardian has quite the physique" one of her friends, Elise, remarked with a playful smile, her eyes twinkling with mischief.
"Yes, there’s a certain allure to his mysterious presence, don’t you think?" another friend, Marianne, added, leaning in closer as if to share a secret.
Patricia chuckled softly, her gaze flickering towards Cedric. "I suppose so. Though personally, I’ve always preferred a thinner man," she replied lightly, thinking fondly of her husband's more slender form, the memory kept quietly in her heart.
The group shared a knowing nod, their smiles a blend of sympathy and understanding. They continued to sip their tea, the conversation ebbing back to the trivialities of noble life.
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> Just the other day, while I was lost in the world of my magical gardening, Cedric joined me, as has become his custom. His presence is becoming a pleasant addition to my routine. "Why don’t you use magic in your work?" I queried, genuinely curious about his avoidance of such a common practice here.
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> He paused and said "I know a few practical spells. But I've never really attempted to use them" he confessed, his voice tinged with a hint of resignation.
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> Intrigued, I offered a simple spell as a demonstration, urging him to try. Yet, to our mutual surprise, nothing occurred. No spark, no stir of energy. It became apparent that Cedric, unlike every person here, possessed no mana at all.
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> He shrugged lightly "I have my own abilities anyway, though I prefer to keep them in reserve. Using them too frequently... it's not a good choice."
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> His words lingered in the air, heavy with unspoken stories. Though he spoke of restraint, his eyes hinted at depths untold, of powers so unique and perhaps, burdensome.
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> May 28th
>
> Dear Diary,
>
> Today brought with it joyous news; one of my dear friends, Elise has announced her engagement to the love of her life, and has extended an invitation to my family to join in the celebration. What’s more, Cedric has been invited as well, marking his first social event under our roof.
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> As the day of the party approached, my parents were adamant that Cedric should present himself in attire befitting the occasion, insisting he set aside his customary cloak for the evening. Initially reluctant, Cedric clung to the security of his cloak. Despite this, after persistent persuasion from my parents, who viewed the cloak as overly solemn for such a festive occasion, he acquiesced with a gracious, albeit slightly bemused, surrender.
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> It was quite a scene, I must admit, watching him grapple with the nuances of our latest fashions. Our maid lent her expertise, fluttering around him with an array of garments that represented the height of our current trends. The transformation was not just in attire but in demeanor; as he shed his cloak and finally removed his mask, a wave of surprise washed over me.
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> There, in front of me, stood not the grizzled old wanderer I had imagined but a decidedly young man, his features exuding the vibrant energy and spirit characteristic of someone in the early prime of their life. His tan skin contrasted starkly against the dark fabric of his usual attire, and his hair, a rich shade of black, fell neatly arranged, adding to his youthful yet somber demeanor. But what caught me most were his eyes, a deep and mysterious shade that hovered between dark and golden, reflecting the many worlds he had seen—worlds as varied and complex as the emotions that seemed to flicker through his gaze.
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> His transformation from the cloaked figure to this refreshingly youthful appearance stirred a mix of emotions within me. It was startling to see him in such a different light, to reconcile this young man with the seasoned traveler who had walked through realities far beyond our own. The dissonance between his youthful exterior and the weight of his experiences was palpable, giving him an allure that was both intriguing and slightly melancholic.
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> At that moment, the maternal part of me longed to reach out and embrace him, to offer him the kind of comfort I would give to my grandchildren. There was an urge to soothe the weariness I sensed in him, to offer a haven, however brief, from the relentless journey he was on.
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> As night fell, we all made our way to the eagerly awaited engagement party of my dear friend. Though the event might not have boasted the grandeur typical of higher nobility, it was beautifully arranged and brimming with warmth and genuine joy. Everyone was in high spirits as we arrived, gathering around the evening’s radiant star—my friend, whose happiness was infectious.
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> The night progressed smoothly, filled with laughter and light-hearted conversations. However, a slight tension arose when a few ladies, perhaps carried away by the festive spirit, began to make rather pointed remarks about my own unwed status. It was not the first time I had faced such comments, and they held no sting for me; yet, the intent behind them was less than kind.
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> Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.
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> Before my friend could intervene, Cedric, ever the vigilant guardian, was on his feet, ready to address the slight. There was a resolve in his stance, a readiness to protect that was both touching and slightly amusing, given the trivial nature of the offense. I gently placed a hand on his arm, urging him to sit. "These young ladies still have much to learn about the world" I whispered to him, my voice laced with understanding. "Their words are merely echoes of their own insecurities, and they do not trouble me in the slightest."
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> Cedric looked at me, a flicker of hesitation in his eyes, but he respected my wishes and took his seat once again. His action, or rather his restraint, seemed to sap the fun from their game. Finding no further entertainment in their taunts, the ladies soon turned their attention elsewhere, and the incident dissolved into the merriment of the night.
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> As the evening wore on, the warm glow of lanterns and the soft melodies played by the musicians created a backdrop of serene beauty. I watched Cedric as he interacted cautiously with the other guests, his earlier readiness to defend now tempered with a quiet observance. It was clear that he was still learning the subtleties of our social norms, yet his respect for my guidance reassured me that he was more than capable of adapting.
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> The party continued well into the night, a celebration of love and companionship that seemed to embody the very essence of what true connections should be. It was a reminder of the joys of life, of the bonds we forge and the paths we choose, each one sprinkled with moments of challenge and triumph.
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> The evening progressed with laughter and light conversations swirling around the beautifully decorated hall. Yet, amidst the festive atmosphere, a moment of quiet artistry unfolded. Another dear friend of mine, Marianne. Known for her passion for drawing and painting, expressed a keen interest in capturing Cedric's likeness on paper. The request seemed to catch Cedric off guard; he hesitated, his eyes briefly darting around as if assessing an unseen threat. It was clear that he was unaccustomed to such benign interactions, his instincts still tuned to the lurking dangers of his past missions.
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I handed her my diary, encouraging him with a gentle nudge, "Just stand still, Cedric. Let her capture the moment." He nodded, albeit with a hint of reluctance, and took his position, trying his best to mask his unease under the gaze of an artist.
My friend quickly lost herself in her sketching, her pencil dancing gracefully over the page. However, the serenity of this artistic endeavor was abruptly shattered. The same group of ladies who had earlier made pointed remarks about my marital status returned, their faces twisted in disdain. Without warning, one of them flung her glass of wine at my friend, the red liquid splashing across the drawing.
"Drawing is hardly lady-like!" one lady scoffed, her voice dripping with mockery. "You should focus on embroidery instead. With magic, drawing has become absurdly undervalued, and it's a trivial pursuit at best."
The sudden attack left us all stunned. Cedric, who had begun to relax into the role of a portrait subject, tensed immediately, his earlier instincts surging to the forefront. I quickly stepped between him and the ladies, my hand raised in a calming gesture. "Enough," I said firmly, my voice carrying through the shocked silence that followed. "Art, in any form, is a noble pursuit. It captures beauty and emotion in ways that magic never could. Your words reflect poorly on yourselves, not on us."
The air at the party, previously filled with the warmth of celebration, momentarily chilled as the confrontation escalated. The group of ladies, their faces flushed with embarrassment and indignation, found themselves facing not just Patricia but also Cedric, who stood firm and unyielding beside her.
It became clear that their earlier taunts were not just born out of disdain for unconventional hobbies but also out of a misguided attempt to draw Cedric's attention away from Patricia and her circle.
Cedric, however, was not swayed. His response to their provocations was a cold, piercing look that left no room for misunderstanding. His silence spoke volumes, and his disapproval was palpable in the air.
Sensing the tension had reached its peak, Elise, the host and recently engaged friend, intervened decisively. With a few stern words and the support of her other guests, she requested the disruptive ladies to leave the party. The swift action by Elise and her allies restored a semblance of peace to the evening's festivities.
Marianne, the artist whose drawing had become an unintended casualty in the skirmish, looked downcast as she glanced at the stained remnants of her artwork. "I'm so sorry, Patricia. Your diary got wet too," she murmured, her voice tinged with regret.
Patricia quickly moved to comfort her, placing a reassuring hand on Marianne's shoulder. "It's quite alright, Marianne. These things happen, and what matters is that you're okay," she said gently, offering a smile that eased the younger woman's distress.
Though the drawing was indeed ruined, with only parts of Cedric's image still visible amidst the smudges of wine, Patricia found a silver lining. "At least we have a part of it that survived," she noted, trying to uplift the mood.
As the party wound down and guests began to take their leave, Elise approached Patricia with an apologetic look. "I'm truly sorry for inviting those people," she said, her voice sincere. "I had hoped for a night of joy, not conflict."
Patricia, understanding the unpredictability of social gatherings, reassured her. "Elise, you planned a beautiful event, and one unfortunate incident doesn’t define the entire evening. We all stood together, and that counts for something much greater," she encouraged, helping Elise see the positive outcomes of the night.
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> June 4th
>
> Dear Diary,
>
> Today greeted us with a delightful, sunny disposition, the kind of weather that invites the soul to bask in the warmth and light. It’s on days like these that the garden seems most alive, vibrant colors bursting forth in a silent yet eloquent celebration of life.
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> Despite the cheery weather, Cedric has swiftly reverted to his customary attire of cloak and mask, much to my amusement. It’s almost comical how quickly he embraced the familiarity of his dark ensemble after the party at Elise’s. “Do you not feel overly warm dressed like that?” I inquired this morning, a playful tone in my voice. His response was as curt as it was endearing, “It’s fine for me,” he assured, though I caught a hint of defensiveness in his swift reply.
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> Having Cedric here has, strangely enough, evoked memories of days spent with my grandchildren in my previous life. There’s a comfort in his presence, a reminder of times filled with laughter and youthful energy, though he carries an air of mystery that my grandchildren never had.
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> One peculiar habit of his that has caught my curiosity is the constant companion of a book he always carries. It’s an old, well-worn tome that seems almost a part of him. Once, driven by a blend of curiosity and opportunity, I attempted to peek at its contents. To my surprise, all the pages appeared blank. What secrets do they hold, I wonder? What visions or words does Cedric see upon those seemingly empty pages? It’s a mystery that adds an intriguing layer to his already complex character.
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> As the days pass, my intrigue with Cedric’s enigmatic world only deepens. Each interaction, each shared moment seems to peel back a layer, revealing yet more questions that tickle my mind. What stories lay hidden within his silent book? What worlds has he seen that leave such a mark upon his demeanor? These are questions I hope to explore, as the bond between us grows under the tranquil days and the quietude of our shared existence.
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> June 24th
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> Dear Diary,
>
> Today's venture into the bustling heart of the market was both refreshing and eye-opening. Accompanied by Cedric, whose presence is becoming increasingly familiar and comforting, I immersed myself in the lively sounds of commerce and community. It is moments like these that remind me why I cherish being part of a baron family; we are not aloof or removed from our people but integrated, living amongst them, sharing in the day-to-day tapestry of life just as I did in my previous life.
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> As we navigated through the throng of vendors and patrons, a small incident caught us by surprise. A young boy, quick and nearly silent, made a deft attempt to pick my pocket. However, Cedric’s vigilance proved too much for the would-be thief, and he was caught before his fingers could close around their target.
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> Rather than reprimand him harshly, we asked him to explain his actions. The boy, eyes downcast, confessed to being driven by hunger. Moved by his plight, I could not simply let him go with a scold. Instead, I led him to a local inn, where I ordered him some bread and warm soup, ensuring he had a moment of reprieve from whatever circumstances had driven him to steal.
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> This simple act of kindness not only filled the boy with relief but also seemed to leave a profound impact on Cedric. Watching him interact with the boy, I saw a gentleness in Cedric that went beyond his usual reserved composure. It was as if, in that small gesture of compassion, he found a connection to this world that was deeper than the duties that brought him here.
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> Our visit to the market took an unexpected turn that tugged deeply at my heartstrings. After the young boy tried to stash pieces of his bread into his pockets, curiosity led me to inquire about his actions. His simple, yet profound response revealed a reality I had not fully grasped despite my regular interactions with our community: he was saving the bread for his friends.
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Motivated by a growing concern, I asked him to lead us to his friends. He hesitated, perhaps fearing reprimand or disbelief, but trust won out, and he guided us down a narrow alley tucked away from the main thoroughfare of the market. There, in a forgotten corner of the town, we discovered a group of parentless children huddled together. The scene was disheartening—so many young lives, each bearing the heavy burden of survival.
"They leave us, or they lose us," one slightly older child explained, his voice carrying a resignation far beyond his years. "Now, we look after each other. Stealing... it’s how we eat."
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> The stark reality of these children, forced to fend for themselves, stealing to survive, left me reeling. Guilt washed over me for having been oblivious to their plight, for enjoying the comfort of my status while such suffering lingered in the shadows of our streets.
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> After speaking with them, learning their names, and hearing their stories, I couldn't simply walk away untouched or unchanged. I reached into my purse and gave them what money I could spare, ensuring they would at least not have to steal for their next few meals. But as we left the alley, a resolve grew within me—a need to do more, to change their fate if I could.
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> On the quiet walk back home, the wheels of change began to turn in my mind. I planned to consult my parents about founding an orphanage or some manner of safe haven for these children. It was clear that if those of us with the means to make a difference remained ignorant of these issues, the cycle of poverty and theft would only continue.
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> Today's events have left a lasting imprint on my soul, a call to action that I cannot ignore. Perhaps, in helping these children find a safer, more hopeful path, we can begin to mend the fabric of our community, one child at a time.
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> July 24th
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> Dear Diary,
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> As I sit by the window, needles clicking softly together, I find myself reflecting on the whirlwind of activity that has filled the past month. Each day has brought new challenges and opportunities as we've worked tirelessly to bring the orphanage project to life. Thanks to my parents' invaluable support and encouragement, construction has begun, with walls steadily rising to shelter those children who have so quickly found their way into my heart.
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> While I cannot bring each child into my own home, I am knitting clothes to ward off the chill of the coming months. Seeing some of them in threadbare garments, or worse, barefoot, has only fueled my resolve. I am determined that by the time winter's touch graces our town, they will each have something warm to wear. This small act, though seemingly simple, is steeped in love and care—my way of wrapping them in warmth, both physical and emotional.
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> Cedric has been a constant companion in our efforts, although lately, he seems preoccupied with personal matters as well. Apart from diligently delivering supplies to the site—from books to blankets—he mentioned needing to investigate something related to his mysterious book. His absences have grown more frequent, his returns later each day, yet he remains committed to our cause.
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> I find myself watching the clock as the evening stretches on, hoping he returns in time for dinner. Despite his otherworldly origins and his self-assured independence, Cedric is no different from anyone else in one basic need—the necessity of nourishment. Just like the children we are striving to protect, he too must take care to maintain his health. I often remind him, half in jest, half in earnest, that being well-fed is part of staying strong, especially when one carries burdens as heavy as his.
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> As I finish another scarf, the yarn like a tangible connection between my hopes and the reality we are building, I am filled with a sense of purpose. These are more than just articles of clothing; they are symbols of a community coming together, of a future where no child needs to steal to survive, and where mysterious guardians find a place to call home, even if only for a while.