just like that, gaia was gone.
and so was the journal.
the only remnant of it is the pile of ashes on the ground,
and the charred, vaguely intact slip of paper sitting within.
wait.
the flames got it good, but it's still legible.
you shove it in your coat pocket.
(ok)
it's a poem.
and it's in some kind of drawn writing.
on a usual day, this wouldn't make any sense whatsoever to you.
but right now, somehow, you can understand some of it.
'sinpin tu taso li lon.
ni li selo li insa. /
only two faces exist.
these are the outside and the inside.’
there is a four digit number penned down in a corner.
0737.
(ok)