every story narrated in it's archaic is from a worn out book-shelf of a rustic, old and vintage library. this is the place where my mind keeps all of it's fantasies from centuries throughout time;

of an exiled child, the tragedy of losing layla, the yearning for being loved by celestia, meeting someone at irem's garden for the first and last time, and they leave without a goodbye, of living in a kingdom that threatens your existence, living in a society where handsome boys are praised for their vanity, where your heart breaks but you can't say it out loud, where the world ends at moonrise, and of crumpled letters written in smeared ink for people you love, of climbing blue mountains, of following a trail of tragic grief and plucking white daises.

this book is simply me stepping into ❝windermere library❞ in my mind and reading all these stories, the fragments left from generations long gone, to you, in a dim-lit corner by the window sill.

i truly hope you enjoy your stay here.