My fingers trembled as I flipped to the next page. All the while, my heart violently hammered inside my rib cage. The beautifully hand-written words, sketched delicately and almost with perfection welcomed my sight. The soft, thin strokes flowed freely against the pristine white background like a ballerina gracefully moving against the rhythm of an imaginary sonata.
Though the words were written in a manner of perfection, it didn't press my button of recognition. They looked too unfamiliar as if another delicate hand—not mine—imprinted them right through the pages. That fleeting moment I was sure that it wasn't my own and I would bet my whole life—if there was any left for me—that it belongs to another woman regardless of the name imprinted on the leather bound.
