I awoke with a start. The night was dark and thick, but I could tell morning wasn’t far off. Looking about my desk, I noted where I left off before falling asleep. Papers upon papers of writing in tiny words, filling from edge to edge, lie in a relatively scattered pile. Open books, including The Record of Dragmire, The Book of Mudora, and the Gerudo-English Dictionary, lie on the periphery of the desk just in front of a small desk lamp. I shook my head clear of the grogginess and attempted to finish my work. I reached for a couple sheets of paper and folded them to make a large envelope, and then addressed it to my son, Samson. I smiled to myself; as it seemed, Ganondorf never got my son’s name. I gave no return address or name because of the sheer number of people who know who I am. I reorganized the scattered pieces of paper, folded them into thirds, and shoved them roughly into the hand-made envelope.
As I began to wake up more, some of the wor