Cain's mother and grandmother passed away a week ago. They said it was due to a speeding car. When he asked where their bodies were, they told him they were totaled.
A day after the accident, the family decided they should be cremated, so the funeral was held a few days later. Cain didn't remember much about the funeral—just an hour in the church, another at the cemetery, and then a gathering filled with people who didn't know what to say to him. He didn't cry at all. To him, it was just a jar of ashes; he had never cried over an object before. They probably misunderstood him when they said everything would be okay, and he reassured them that he would survive this ordeal.
The house was filled with the smell of flowers the entire day after the funeral. He asked his father to remove them, and surprisingly, he actually listened. His father was a cop—an asshole who argued with his mom every day. Cain didn't feel close to him, and seeing him weep at the funeral only irritated him.
Was he a heartless son of a bitch? Definitely not. He had cried when he first met his grandma, when he got embarrassed, and when he faced rejection for the first time—so why didn't he cry at the funeral for the only people he felt he truly loved?
He didn't know either. Maybe it was because he hadn't seen their faces, or perhaps it was because they were nothing but ashes now. However, he regretted not telling one thing to his mom: "The lasagna you made was dry, but I ate it anyway."
---
Cain opened the door and felt that it was unusually heavy. "Is this door broken too? God, is there anything in this house that isn't broken?!"
Kicking the door violently, he fell onto the bed, feeling his body unusually heavy for a moment. He looked around the room but noticed that nothing had changed—except for a book placed on the study table that he had never used.
Thinking he was hallucinating, he stood up and confirmed that it was indeed a book, along with a quill and a bottle of ink. This was strange since he had no memory of buying any of this. Curious, he approached the table, noticed a piece of parchment protruding between the pages of the book, and carefully read what was written on it:
——
Dear Cain
My sweet, sweet Cain.
If you're reading this… then I must already be gone. And oh, I can just picture that face of yours. Are you crying? Feeling sad? If so—then listen here, young man—you need to man up! Death always catches up to the unlucky ones. But you? You've been given a chance to escape it. Or at least… to keep it waiting a little longer.
Now, the book—yes, that strange old thing I always kept tucked away. That's no ordinary book, Cain. I slipped this letter inside because I knew one day, it would find you. It has always been the treasure of our family, passed down since your great-great-grandfather's time. They say it came from an angel… or maybe a god. No one really knows.
Maybe you will, Cain. Maybe you'll be the one to uncover the truth.
This Book of Creations—it's alive in a way. And it chooses its bearer. The quill and ink that come with it are just as special. If you write your name in the book and it doesn't disappear, then the book has chosen you. You'll be bound to it from that moment on.
I remember asking my father about it, and he told me the book gives you the ability to travel between worlds, Cain. Entire universes. Imagine that! I was fascinated beyond words at that time. I hope you are too.
Take care of it, my darling boy. More than gold, more than legacy—it's our true inheritance.
I hope you rest well when you need to, Cain. But when you rise, rise stronger than ever. I will always love you, as did your mother.
P.S. You can only write on the back of the book. I know, strange.
P.P.S. Don't dip it in just any ink! Use the one that came with it. The pretty one with the weird shimmer. Yes, that one.
P.P.P.S. There should be a jar of money below where your books are If your mom didn't steal them again.
P.P.P.P.S. Oh! They said the book "feeds" on stories! Make sure to feed it every time!
P.P.P.P.P.S. I love you, Cain. Don't forget to eat proper meals. Not just canned soup again. I'm watching you. (Maybe literally.)
P.P.P.P.P.P.S. They also told me that you can refill the jar of ink with your blood. I feel nauseated.
With all my heart,
Grandma
——
After reading the letter, Cain frowned—feeling that his legs were unnaturally heavy. He carefully folded the letter and slipped it between the pages of the book. His eyes landed on the book his grandma emphasizes in the letter, his face stoic—devoid of any excitement.
Instead of examining the book, he bent down his body and opened the door where his books were. There, he saw a jar full of 20-dollar bills.
She's the best...Cain smiled as he stared at the jar.
He picked up the jar and placed it at the top of the table. Then, he locked the door and went to the bed. Thinking about the letter from his Grandma, Cain slowly fell asleep. His eyes were heavy, his body heavy, and his heart the heaviest of them all.
Before he fell asleep, he came to a realization: His grandma was always forgetful.