The book lay on the shelf, as it had for years, in the attic. It's cover was leather, an old leather that had turned soft after the years of handling. It's words were faded and some were gone completely. It's title was hardly legible, though at one point it had been graceful and beautiful. Once long ago it's cover had been hard and new, it's letters bold and black. Though it had long since been forgotten, if you were to open it a story of great mystery would await. The kind none could put down, but now none read from the old book, none heard its great story, and none ever would.