I always knew something was off about me.

My friends and family brushed it off that I was lucky to still look young at the age of 50.

But at the age of 80, when all my family and friends were gone but I was still alive. I realized I wasn't so lucky.

I faked my death, and started my life anew in a completely different town.

I then begun to write, and surprisingly, it did well. So that became my way to bring bread to my table.

After about 50 or so years, I disappear and go to another town with a completely different pen name and a slightly different writing style to continue writing my books.

Every time I wrote something new, it was sure to become successful and I will be a popular author before having to leave.

When I entered the modern times, it was weird.

Watching what used to be horses and carriages that was now turned into automobiles was an interesting scene.

I watched as what used to be clear blue skies turned into grey, smoggy, and cloudy skies.

I watched as animals around me slowly go extinct.

I watched as fields were turned into towns and cities.

I watched as machines were created.

I watched as geniuses were born and as they died.

I watched as physics were created.

I watched as theories for time travelling were created.

And lastly, I watched as the people I loved died around me.

As I went through my 5th pen name, I decided to close myself off from loving.

Being immortal was terrible, I just wanted it all to end.

But I have tried, and it didn't work.

Every time a new decade past but I didn't look any older, my heart hurts so so much.

Now, I was in a city, crossing a street towards a bookstore.

An alarm on my phone told me I had 30 minutes to prepare for my book signing.

I set up my things, and laid out my books. The owner of the store nodded before opening the doors.

A crowd of people hurried in and immediately started forming a line in front of me, it made me happy knowing that the only thing that haven't change yet was people's love for books.

I put on a smile and proceeded to sign the books, take pictures, and interacted with my fans.

Towards the end of the day, one last man stood in front of me, holding a book.

I smiled as I reached out to sign the book, but froze as I looked at the cover.

It was a book I wrote over 300 years ago, in a completely different pen name.

I looked up at the man who smirked and leaned over the table to whisper into my ear.

"I quite missed it when you wrote in this style, it was my favorite out of all your books."