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PART 1:

If I could have changed anything, it’d have been what happened three years ago on this precise date. As I ran in the relentless rain, I contemplated everything that had occurred, and how I could’ve fixed everything earlier. Without all the pain my loved ones had to endure.

   Tears began to fall down my grief-stricken face. He had died. Three years ago, he had been murdered pointlessly in a war over a book. I wasn’t quite sure what the book was, although I held it through my wet fingers as I fled the police.

   Again, another needless struggle: why did I run from the authorities? I hadn’t done anything wrong. I was just protecting a book. Protecting, presumably, my grandfather’s legacy. The last piece of him left. The book called me to flee, and so I fled, unsure of what to do instead. It was like being a fish underwater; you see the worm, but you have no idea how it entered the water, no idea what it means, and really no idea why the last fish to eat the worm died. All you know is that it’s calling you, and you can’t ignore the calling.

   So I’m dead. The police will soon give up on a peaceful arrest and they might try to shoot me. For all they know, I’ve got a weapon and I’m dangerous to the population.

   Maybe I do have a weapon. I don’t know what this book can do. I have no idea what power it holds. All I know is that my grandfather told me to protect it, with my life.

   That promise had come with stunning revelations; apparently, Kennedy had been assassinated because people wanted this very book, not because of political motivators. The Arms Race against the Soviets was really both sides trying to gain enough power to take the book by force, and when that didn’t work, the Space Race was all about proving who was better, who deserved the book in the first place. All throughout history, seemingly simple, or overly complex, events were all built upon getting this book.

   And now I had it, and I had to keep it away from the police. Again, I wasn’t sure why.

   But even the weather had something to say. I slipped in a puddle, and I refused to get up. I couldn’t. I didn’t want to face the police, but I had no motivation to flee anymore. Only to curl up on the wet pavement and cry, letting the fresh wounds on my elbows and knees tear every bit of me apart. I can’t do this anymore. Three years…grandfather, why couldn’t you have given them the stupid book?

I wasn’t very strong emotionally. I was still crying when the police interrogator arrived, although by now I had managed to confine my emotions to silent tears rolling down the cheeks of a broken, yet still, teenager.

   The man had a thick, but well-trimmed beard, and he wore what I’d have expected a detective to wear. What surprised me, however, was his calm demeanor. I had recognized him as one of the pursuers, so I thought he should have been upset. Angry. Demanding.

   I still didn’t trust him.

   “You apparently don’t exist, as far as the world’s concerned,” the man stated in the same matter-of-fact voice my parents would use when commenting on how messy my room was.

   “Some things are safer,” I simply told him, knowing he expected an answer, but not willing to actually give one.

   “Safer for you?” he asked. “Or safer for the world?”

   “Both.”

   It was a simple answer, and it seemed to satisfy him, although I had no idea why. It gave him literally no details on my identity.

   “You had a wallet in your pocket,” the man noted. I realized they must have searched me after I fell unconscious, which wasn’t unexpected. “The driver’s license said you are Jenny Freeman. There’s no such person.”

   Jenny Freeman. My parents’ name for me. My grandfather had always called me Lily, like the flower. As far as he was concerned, I had no last name. I remained silent, trying keep a new wave of tears from streaming down my face.

   The man’s lips narrowed. “Listen, that book you were holding…it’s special. Important. Your grandfather had it for a reason, and that’s the same reason I made sure my colleagues never found it. I work with people who hope to achieve the same goal your grandfather strived for. I’m your friend.”

   I glanced up at one of the four security cameras. “That explains how you’re recording all of this.”

   The man hesitated, then shrugged. “Why should I care what you think? If you want to delude yourself, go ahead. I’m here to recruit you, not interrogate you.”

   "So if I walked to that door, I’d find it unlocked, and I’d be able to leave, no questions asked?” I inquired, suspicious.

   The man nodded. I stood up and tested my theory, but found I was wrong; he was telling the truth. I walked out of the police station and found myself…home.

   He knew the city my grandfather lived and took me back. I returned to the man. “I trust you,” I informed him, taking my seat once again. I made sure I hardened my emotions, however. I didn’t want to be involuntarily persuaded to give away any sensitive details. It could still be a trap.

   The man smiled. He seemed to expect I’d come back. “So, I want to hear about this entire journey of yours. I know most of the time after the Dark Eclipse found you, I want to find out what happened when your grandfather died and what occurred afterwards.”

   Oh, that was what the cultists were calling themselves.

   “First, what’s the book about?” I demanded. “What’s this battle for? Why did my grandfather die?”

                The man hesitated. “Believe it or not, it’s just a story. I don’t know the details, just that it’s a work of pure fiction.”

                That infuriated me! A war?! My grandfather’s death?! All for some stupid story that they could have shared?!

                But the man had said my grandfather kept it for a reason. There must be more. But before I can learn more, I’ll need him to be sure he can trust me, if he really is on my side.

                I frowned at him. “If I tell you my story, will you tell me everything you know? Everything?”

                “Yes,” the man nodded, without hesitation.

                I considered this. “Deal.” I reached out and shook his hand, and found, much to my surprise, that the tears were gone. I no longer felt pain. Had I therefore let my grandfather go?

                I considered that question as the man reached down, picked something off the floor that I hadn’t noticed, and slide it over to me. The book. He was giving it back.

                No, my grandfather’s still with me. I haven’t failed; not yet, anyways.

                Newfound confidence entering my posture, I retold my story, starting with the day of my grandfather’s death.