"This collection of journals has been passed down generation after generation, held in the hands of me, your grandfather, your father, my son, and my father, and his father, and the father after that. This journal has been used for decades, implemented into our heritage and our lives. But the story of the journals started with a carpenter, a carpenter and his trip toward the dangerous lands of Oregon."

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"Grandfather?" The call came from the attic, where, amongst all the dusty hidden treasures, lay a small child, their opalescent bronze eyes staring at the intriguing book in their hands. Inset in the cover were the words "nunquam obliviscar." Never forget. The leather book felt old in their hands. Like it had been trampled on by oxen and then thrown into a fire.

As they carried the books to their grandfather, they thought of the stories he had once told before he went nearly silent, only talking to himself. They knew he might answer their questions, or that he might not. But he was their world, and they, his. They knew his days grew shorter, and time running out, but they always cherished a phrase their mother uttered to them every night after she thought they had fallen asleep. "amor vincit omnia." Love conquers all.

He sat there on the couch, like he often did, lost in thought, seeming to murmur to himself. "Grandfather?" they inquired "Whose are these?"

He jumped, startled, then smiled as he recognized his grandchild. "Ah, my dear Gemini," he began, letting them jump into his lap, "These hold the stories of your ancestors. The true wonders they possessed. After we moved, I suppose they were tucked away. And for that I am truly sorry."

The grandfather of the child stared into the book, sadness and longing filling his eyes. He often dreamed of other places. Places where he could walk. Where he could frolic and dance forever with his little Gemini. When they looked up again, he seemed to be carried away, his eyes clouding over as he traveled to distant lands.

"Don't be silly grandfather. They're just books. It's not like they have... feelings," they mused, tucking a strand of ringleted hair behind their ear.

"No matter," he replied, seeming to shoo them with a flick of his hand.

Used to this treatment, they began to recede, before a mischievous grin leapt onto their face. "Tell me the story of these books, Grandfather, tell me of them."

Woken from his stupor, a new expression crept up his face. One that they hadn't seen in a long time. One that hadn't ever shown itself since his father, his son, died.

"I will tell you the story of your ancestors, but you must listen carefully, for the lives of many may depend on your memory. This collection of journals has been passed down generation after generation, held in the hands of me, your grandfather, your father, my son, and my father, and his father, and the father after that. This journal has been used for decades, implemented into our heritage and our lives. But the story of the journals started with a carpenter, a carpenter and his trip toward the dangerous lands of Oregon.

And his name was...

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