“I know I left it somewhere…” Aine muttered looking under the bunk beds. He grimaced, nothing was under there except one empty bottle of Permafrost wine, courtesy of their local prince.

The tealette man stood up, placing a palm to his forehead to think. Where had he left his journal?

Although it was not the particular journal he was writing in now, Aine often read back the old journals he wrote while he was hospitalized. The compositions were precious to him; in it were his daily activities, events, inspirations, and lyrics he wrote in the spur of time. It was also for the case if Aine lost his memories again, it would remain in a physical form to him.

But now… the thousands of words he written in there of his days in the hospital.

They were gone.

…

It took Aine a while to remember he left it in one of the recording studios.

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