The sun was streaming in through the open window, giving me just enough light to pack my things, stuffing random items into a trunk.

Mom came in, Estelle balanced on her hip, watching me attempt to cram a small notebook into the limited space.

"You'll need space for this," she said, handing me a hardcover book as she walked out of the room, Estelle still crooning with the excitement of motion.

Hestitanly, I flipped the book around, tracing the soft greens of the cover, attempting to read the title.

"The Lightning Theif," I managed to decrypt, tears threatening to spill out at any moment.

Here, my story, Annabeth's story, would live far longer than we would.

"It's going to be bad," Mom had said, "People might not like it."

I had assured her that her writing was great.

But still she was scared. Scared of our enemies, of the dangers it could bring our family, if someone read the book and took offence.

So she used a pseudonym.

Rick Riordan.

I ran a thumb over the capital white letters, as if I could feel them, using something stronger than just my bare eyes.

Turning back to my suitcase, I dug around for something to take out so I could fit the book in.

I had packed all my memories.

Rare pictures, Annabeth's sketchbook, little tiny bits and bobs that stirred up old thoughts and reminiscings.

And I wanted to bring all of them. If I could, I would pack up my whole room in my suitcase, down to the weird items I stuffed under my bed when I was 'tidying up'.

It was different when I went to Camp. That was just for the summer and I had built up my own collection of memories there as well.

College wasn't going to be forever, but it would be a pretty long time. And it was going to be worth every second.

Somehow, I managed to fit in the book, knowing that I was going to devour it as soon as possible, and those words would become mine, part of my brain, part of my world.

It was a pretty solid read, and with my dyslexia, it would take me a few weeks at least.

But I wanted to read it in it's original form, to savor the words that lost their meaning when they were translated into another language.

So the struggle would be worth it.

And I had the time.

More than enough time.

My eyes flickered to the window, a slight smile itching at the corners of my mouth as I gazed at the familiar skyline, a sight I would surely miss.

Just then, a voice sounded, a clear whisper in my ear, meant to reach me only.

"I'll be waiting, Seaweed." A laugh followed, a small excited sound of exhilaration that made my heart stop pounding in my chest.

I stopped short, wishing I could somehow record that beautiful, sunny laugh and replay it in my head, over and over and never ever get bored of it.

Smiling, though the action somehow contained a bitter element to it, I took out my wallet, pulling out the picture Annabeth had sent me all those years ago, of her standing my the Lincoln Memorial, with a proud smile plastered on her face, her thirteen year old eyes free from the future hauntings she would have to suffer from.

That was my Annabeth. My wonderful, wonderful Wise Girl.

And I couldn't wait to meet her again, someday. But not yet. First, my life. First, to do all the things she wished fo do, but didn't.

An old memory replayed in my mind, the blurred outline of the first time I properly saw Annabeth, stared into her gorgeous stormy gray eyes and hearing the steel like tone of her voice.

I hadn't found it very amusing then, to be told I apparently dropped in my sleep, but now the faint outline of a laugh played on my mouth.

Annabeth.

That was why I was going to college.

That was why I had worked sleepless nights with Mom, working out a vague outline of a story, typing up millions of notes on a glowing screen.

That was why I had managed to get in touch with Grover, to plan a meet up before we left.

Memories. Feelings, thoughts, even the way we remembered things changed over time, but the facts remained the same.

And these memories, these reminders of our struggles, our promises, our failures, would forever be engraved in our minds, and it was up to us to choose whether to use that knowledge for good or for evil.

The sound of a happy Estelle sounded from outside my door, promoting me to finally haul my suitcase off my bed, watching the tornado of dust that escaped into the air.

I would make new memories. Not to replace the old, but to add to the forever increasing scrapbook of them stored in my brain.

Looking up at my almost empty shelf, I realised there was one last thing I absolutely had to pack, even though it would increase the chance of monsters.

I could deal with those infuriating monsters. They wouldn't kill me. Not yet.

I needed a way of capturing memories, a way of preserving them, a way of illustrating an impossible story, whatever the costs.

My story.

And Annabeth's.

And everyone else I had ever met, friend or foe, alive or dead.

And it was going to be told.

Children, all over the world turning pages, getting to know me, and everyone else, without ever seeing my face.

It was just a story to them.

And maybe that was the reality.

Maybe life was a complex story, reaching its ups and downs, struggles and successes, until the end.

But unlike a story, life continued on after the pages.

Even when you reached the very last page, got to the very last sentence, the very last word, there was always more.

Always.

The story continued on, past the yellowing pages into the world, where life and death was as real as real could be.

And my story, though it may seem slightly more unusual than others, was still my story, my life, complete and utter truth.

And I was absolutely and completely certain it would be told.

Of course, there would always be those scepticalists, those who questioned every word and refused to believe pure facts shoved in their face.

But in every bucket of seawater, there are traces of gold, and by building it up, they would overpower everyone.

And continue in the chain of telling the story.

My story, theirs, whoever's. Each ran together in an inseperable chain of interwoven words.

And then, then, heroes would arrive.

Not chosen in blood, godly, mortal, or otherwise, but in spirit.

Fighting for what they believed in, no matter what the consequences were, making friendships, sparking rivalry on the way. But in the end, we all fade, from the most powerful gods, down to the last drowned sapling.

Which what made life so precious. The fact that we would all die, fade, always too soon no matter what the ratio was.

And that, dear readers, is where I will end.