Ink bound

"I'm late", she muttered.

The sky was already lightening up, and the first sun rays began hitting the dusty windows of her flat. She looked outside towards the railway station and its big antique clock, reminding her it was past 6 am and she was, indeed, very late.

She took one more bite from her toast, cleaned up the crumbs, and put the plate in the sink. Dishwashing will have to wait. She swirled her coat around her and patted her bag, checking if her phone and keys were in there. Swinging the strap across her body, she took one last look at the glimmering roofs emerging from the disappearing night. If she took her shortcut through the railway station, she'd still make it.

"Ah, my mask," she whispered, distracted.

She fastened the piece of cloth over her mouth and nose, and with a turn of the keys, the door was locked and she was gone.

It had been like that for a while : with the ongoing pandemic dragging on, most people were still working from their homes. As much as she missed the hustle-bustle of people hurrying and cars honking, on silent mornings like this, she always felt the city was hers. Still to this day though, walking in the station, she expected to hear the whistles of the conductors accompanying the slow hum of electric trains standing at the platform, and find the lingering smell of burnt coffee and newspapers in the air. But as she entered the giant hallway, she could only hear her footsteps resonate in the stairs.

Startled, a group of pigeons took flight, and she looked up, welcoming the overflowing feeling of quiet and safety she had always felt under the big dome of the building.

No trains. Closed newspaper stand. No coffee.

"Is this yours ?" said a loud voice behind her.

She jumped, startled.

"Oh, it's you," she answered sheepishly. The railway station security guard often made his rounds at that time. He was standing a few feet behind her, pointing at a tiny, black object on the ground. 

"I don't think it's mine," she said, patting her pockets unconsciously.

"Must be," said the man, picking up what seemed to be a small notebook. "I haven't seen anybody else today - here."

He handed the book over to her, leaving her no choice but to take it, before promptly distancing again.

"I really don't think -" she started, flipping the pages by habit.

She stopped mid-sentence.

The slightly yellowed pages were scribbled of what seemed like words, but the more she squinted to read them, the more they felt out of focus. The delicate handwriting felt alive, moving, with a mind of its own. Stupefied, she saw the words flutter on the paper, break up into groups of undistinguishable letters, and join again in what seemed like patterns - a house ? A sculpted roof ? A... temple ?

"It looks like a temple I saw... was it in Bangkok ?" she said out loud, at the same time puzzled and delighted.

She recognized the traditional architecture building itself under her eyes, almost faster than her brain could process it. The ink flowed in long lines, merged in nooks and cradles, and sprang to draw the rooftops adorned with the traditional chofa sculptures. "This... this is amazing !"

She flipped the page hesitantly, feeling her excitement build. The next paragraph wiggled altogether as if it was chuckling at her surprise. She soon could make out the image of a city harbor, surrounded by waves. In the middle was a Chinese junk - she could imagine her red sails - and behind, a line of high-rise buildings and skyscrapers forming the horizon.

"It's Hong Kong! " She laughed. "Is it a travel book ?..."

And there they were; each page, an adventure of their own : Singapore's merlion, Tokyo's crowded streets, Sydney's opera house, the Taj Mahal, Moscow's Kremlin. And with each of them, faces in the crowd, voices. She could faintly smell the street food and taste it in the wind. She could feel the bite of a salty ocean breeze or the warm touch of the sun. As if she was there.

As she flipped the pages faster, enchanted by the world wonders the notebook revealed one by one, her fingers suddenly bumped on the solid cover. Was it the end ? It couldn't be, was it ? Like shaking off a dream, her eyes focused again, falling on a single slip of paper tightened inside the cover's fold. She took it out and brought it closer to her eyes, intrigued.

"There's... There's a check," she stammered. "A bearer check for $20000."

She looked up, bewildered, looking for an explanation on the face of her only witness. But the railway station guard only smiled gently and said:

"It's not a travel book. It's a destination book. And now it's yours," he added.

She looked down on the pages again. The pictures had disappeared, the lines were blank. Only the check remained. She raised her head again, but her interlocutor had vanished.

And she was late.

"Or maybe it is that I have a head start now," she playfully thought to herself, pocketing her newly treasured possession.