I was awoken by the sound of my doorbell going off, I glanced at the clock beside my bed—4:12 AM. Naturally, I was annoyed at being woken up so early. Reluctantly, I dragged myself out of my comfortable bed and shuffled to the door. For a moment, I was surprised when there was nobody outside, but then I remembered that the Foundation delivered its parcels this way. I groaned upon noticing something clearly wedged behind a flowerpot beside the door. I moved the flowerpot housing the plastic plant and retrieved the parcel. Closing the door behind me, I hurried to my room whereupon, I inspected it. The parcel looked unassuming—a brown cardboard box taped shut. Too impatient to bother with a knife, I clumsily ripped it open. After tossing out the meticulously placed bubble wrap, I found a brown paper envelope. I took it to my bed and carefully tore it open, lest I damage its contents. I was dismayed to realised the documents were mere photocopies and not the original—No matter, their contents were what I was after, not the papers they had been originally written on. I took the first page from the envelope and began to read.

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  11 December 1980

  It was a gloomy day. Ugly grey clouds swallowed the sun, snuffing out any semblance of joy. I hurried along to catch my train, relieved to leave Sheffield behind. I hated its ignorant people and factories which choked the air with their poisons. Yes, I was out of a job—but I hated it anyway, and the pay hadn't been great either.

  A well-dressed young man sat beside me. It was apparent that he was from a well-to-do family—his spotless sleeves and hands as smooth as a bank clerk’s suggested he had never done an honest day’s graft.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  Since I had nothing better to do, I initiated small-talk with the man. By the time I reached my destination, I had learnt a lot about him without disclosing much about myself. A peculiar phrase snapped me out of my reverie: "The forgotten king." The phrase felt oddly familiar to me, though I wasn't sure why. I couldn't shake off the uneasy feeling that crept into my mind, I tried to ignore it but it persisted, latching onto my thoughts like a parasite.

  "Perhaps it had been something to do with the Crown," I reassured myself. Not that I cared much for them. Proper snobs, they are.

  The train had arrived at Derby by that point, I bid the man farewell, and dismounted. Carrying my meagre belongings. Outside the station, I hailed a cab as my thoughts drifted towards Emily, my sister—and my hard-working mother. The uneasy feeling brought on by that peculiar phrase started fading into the background, replaced by the warmth and joy of spending Christmas with them after so long.

  Henry

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  It was a fairly mundane diary-entry, nothing really stood out to me until I got to the peculiar phrase: "The Forgotten King." I was annoyed that the author had written nothing about the man who had told him that forbidden phrase, despite supposedly learning a great deal about him during his journey. my intrigue grew. Who was the mysterious man, seemingly possessing knowledge he shouldn't?

  Of course, my job was to uncover this mystery man's identity and bring him in for the Foundation. My only lead? He was a young man in the '80s, possibly from a well-to-do family—clearly wealthy. And that was about it. I was no Sherlock Holmes—there was absolutely no way I could instantly deduce the man's identity from such meagre leads, if you could even call a couple of lines in a stranger's diary a lead at all.

  I sighed, running my fingers through my hair as I stifled a yawn. This was going to be a long day.

  I eyed the sheet of paper peeking from the envelope, my curiosity piqued as I noticed its yellowed form and creased edges.