Zariah
The piece of paper flutters to the ground and lands on my tennis shoe. I look around, as if I think there might be someone else in the library who is playing a trick on me, but there is no one else in the library. Not even a librarian.
I keep the book “The Secrets of the Hills" in my hand as I bend down to pick up the folded piece of paper. It's old, I can tell that as soon as my fingers touch it. The feel of the paper is a bit slick, and it's thicker than the paper I am used to writing on. It's also yellowed, and when I lift it, I see that the writing is very formal, like someone who was taught to write cursive with the fear of getting struck by a ruler in the back of their mind.
Penmanship is not what it used to be.
It's a list, a short one, only five items, and three of them
