The man took a deep breath. He slowly moved his wrinkled hands over the surface of the typewriter, resting them gently upon its keys. A stack of paper was nearby waiting to replenish the paper in the typewriter when it ran out.
The time had come for him to write his story. The story he’d wanted to write his entire life, the story which had been blooming inside him all those years. The story that, for so long, he didn’t feel ready to write.
But now, he knew it was time. Time to write these sacred words. Time for this story, these words, to be freed. It beat its wings inside his chest and soul like a caged dove just about to be set free. The words shone brighter than the sunlight illuminating the room, and the man felt as though his soul had been ignited by the most beautiful thing which exists in this world, or any other. Love. He was alight with the ineffable profundity of what he was about to do.
Then, this moment of hesitation was over. He let his breath out, and the moment was frozen in silent. There were sparks in his fingertips.
It was time for this story to be brought to life.
It was time.
The man gently pressed his finger upon the keys of the typewriter.
The words “Chapter 1” appeared on the page, as if by magic. But it wasn’t by Magic; it was Love, and perhaps, they were both the same thing.
The rhapsodic sound of the keys clacking filled the otherwise silent room. Had you been there in that moment, you would have only heard this sound, the sound of the man’s breathing, and the deafening music of silence. All you would have smelled would be the scent of old paper, the faint smell of flowers drifting in through the partially open window, and the faint dusty smell of the room.
The man held his breath once more. A feeling inside of him, a feeling he couldn’t quite describe, filled him right up and seemed to electrify his very fingers. He felt a sudden thrill, like he was on the verge of something great and it was just the beginning. It was the feeling of something beautiful being born into this world.
He typed the first sentence of the story. It was almost as if he were waiting to see what would happen.
There once lived a boy who wanted more than anything to be happy. Once there was a girl who lived next door to him and wanted the same thing.
The keys once more rang out through the room, and the man paused. The feeling inside him was ineffable, inexpressible, sacred; one of those feelings which, if described or analyzed too closely, loses all meaning. You have to have felt it before to know it. It is the feeling of something Special.
This was the birth of The Book, a Book who would be passed on along the hands of many, saving, changing, & inspiring many lives along the way. The Book had been created for one reason: to prove that Hope still existed, and that no matter how dark or confusing things got, that happy endings were possible.