I am not sure when I was made. I have no memory of my own creation, only of my own first use. There is a difference.
I was bound in golden leather, though I do not know who bound me or why. The pages are made of a material I cannot identify — not paper, not parchment, something in between. Each page contains a single entry: a name, a date, a brief description of a person, and a wish. The wishes are always the same, in different words. They want someone to remember them. They want one living person to carry...
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