I found this book between another two unfinished novels sitting on my bookshelf in my living room, right where I placed it after bringing it home nearly a year ago. I bought it after exploring a local bookstore, drawn in by its interesting cover that felt like an artifact rather than just another book. At the time, I convinced myself that this would be the book to pull me back into reading regularly.

As weeks passed, other responsibilities clouded my mind, and reading slipped further and further down my priority list. The book became more of a symbol of good intentions postponed, and hobbies I believed I’d return to someday. Even untouched, it carries meaning as a reminder of the part of me that gravitates toward stories and imagination. I may not have read it yet, but keeping it around feels like preserving the possibility of re-entering that creative, literary mindset when the time is right.