Post by LETTIE SPENCER on Jul 25, 2016 16:16:07 GMT
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[attr="class","peachsong"]› it's just static
[attr="class","peachtag"]» Ace Venchurro
[attr="class","peachtext"]If he complained this much about cleaning and moving furniture even with the help of telekinetic abilities, she would hate to see how lazy he would be without them. The piano was moved away with minimal fuss once they actually got to work, and Lettie simply smiled with a hint of resignation at the task before them. She wondered if any of those TVs actually still worked. Given the issue they were having with the other one, she wasn't sure about keeping all of those in the apartment for much longer.
She looked over as he picked up the book, a bit surprised. She hadn't noticed it either, and she had been on the floor right next to the piano. Could it have fallen out from somewhere? Taking it from him, she nodded and began to turn back to place it in the box, but paused as she idly brushed dust off of it. No title, no publisher's markings of any kind. She flipped it open through the first few pages and blinked. "Ace, this is a journal."
A woman's handwriting, his mother's she was almost certain, fill the majority of the book, but before she could even think to actually skim any of it, she became aware of a low pitched hum in the room. Not unlike when a TV or something was left on in a room, and she looked up and over to see one of the televisions was on. . . . What?
No, that couldn't be here. Her brow furrowed a bit as another TV switched on, and then another, all showing nothing but static. Muted too, though as each set came to life the hum grew more abrasive to her ears. "That's not actually happening here, right?" she asked quietly, nodding toward the back of the attic. With these things in particular it was sometimes hard to tell.
She looked over as he picked up the book, a bit surprised. She hadn't noticed it either, and she had been on the floor right next to the piano. Could it have fallen out from somewhere? Taking it from him, she nodded and began to turn back to place it in the box, but paused as she idly brushed dust off of it. No title, no publisher's markings of any kind. She flipped it open through the first few pages and blinked. "Ace, this is a journal."
A woman's handwriting, his mother's she was almost certain, fill the majority of the book, but before she could even think to actually skim any of it, she became aware of a low pitched hum in the room. Not unlike when a TV or something was left on in a room, and she looked up and over to see one of the televisions was on. . . . What?
No, that couldn't be here. Her brow furrowed a bit as another TV switched on, and then another, all showing nothing but static. Muted too, though as each set came to life the hum grew more abrasive to her ears. "That's not actually happening here, right?" she asked quietly, nodding toward the back of the attic. With these things in particular it was sometimes hard to tell.
CODED BY SYLVIE
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