[ WP ] You collect trinkets called dimension pockets . You have a pencil that never runs out of lead and a bottle that never runs out of water . Whats your favorite/most useful one and how did you get it ?

The crackling fire offered some very much appreciated light and warmth in the brisk autumn night. With the child wrapped up in the sleeping bag a few feet away from her and all of today ’ s tasks finished, Kuroba could finally enjoy a moment of respite. 
 
 Well, that was a bit untrue. One final task still remained undone. 
 
 Moving as quietly as possible so as not to wake the resting child, Kuroba reached into her messenger bag and pulled out a book. It was quite the auspicious book, black, leather bound, with a large, cumbersome buckle wrapped around it serving as a lock. It looked akin to the grimoires that the storybook witches would often use, but as it often turned out, fiction has a tendency to clash with reality. 
 
 This auspicious book was no grimoire, but even among the variety of magical trinkets she had, it was a much, much more powerful and personal item. 
 
 It was her diary. 
 
 Using the flickering flame as a light source, Kuroba began to flip through the countless pages bound within. Contrary to the book ’ s relatively thin appearance, this diary contained the everyday musings of the self-proclaimed witch over the course of the past eighteen years. 
 
 Every single day of training she had when she was young, the day she had decided to set off on this journey, the day she had met and decided to take in the child sleeping next to her -- all of it was recorded in here. To an outsider, this book would hold almost no value, but to Kuroba, it wouldn ’ t be too far a stretch to consider it a record of her entire conscious life. 
 
 And as such, it was a nightly ritual to add another page onto the record before falling asleep. 
 
 But tonight, Kuroba ’ s hand remained hovering over the blank page. 
 
 Although her journey thus far had been anything but boring, on some uneventful days, like today, Kuroba would inexplicably find herself not having much to write about. On these sort of days, she would often just write about whatever came to mind. 
 
 Kuroba leaned back on the rough, dirt packed ground and pondered on what to write about today. The autumn night was serene and still; the only noises were the soft crackles from the dying fire and the sleeping child ’ s gentle breathing. 
 
 The witch softly grinned to herself. 
 
 It seemed that recently, the pages of her diary were filled with mentions of the child.
