Hello diary, it is France as everyday it is. There was a world meeting not long ago, and I only just got back home. Every Time I'm there I always get so annoyed with many of the countries, but every time I manage to forget what I come back to, a cold and empty home. It's quite here I almost find it unbearable. Being alone gives me time to think, too much time. Thinking for too long gets my emotions running, and that kicks my depression in. Although, it honestly could be worse really. The sun is setting and my home is getting darker by the hour. I put down my small bag and began to cook something small. It doesn't matter what it is, you won't care and nor will I, dear diary. After I'm done with this small before-bed snack, I'll head up to bed and get some shut eye.

Sincerely, Francis Bonnefoy.

After I was done writing my name I softly shut the book and hid it behind my cook books. After I finished my small snack I put away the pen, and headed upstairs. Although it may only be a diary I will not lie to it. I walked up the stairs and down the long hallway. Just as I was getting to my bedroom I looked back. I looked back at the old and dark hallway. At the end of it stood a dark and cracked door, with a rusty doorknob and an awfully familiar eerie feeling in my gut. Disturbed by the memories of what lay beyond that knob, I left the hallways and let sleep overcome me in my comfortable bed.