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The town of Serenity was known for its quiet libraries and even quieter librarians. One of the quietest was a woman named Cora, who possessed the ability to read a book just by touching it. This made her the most efficient librarian in all of Serenity. She could tell you if a book was good, bad, or merely average just by shelving it.

One rainy Tuesday, a mysterious, unmarked leather-bound diary was dropped off at the library. The cover was blank, and it had a strange, wobbly quality to it. When Cora touched it, she expected to feel the calm flow of words, but what she got was a blast of absolute nonsense.

The first page she "read" was about the town mayor. "The mayor, a man of exceptional gravity, spent the afternoon flying his pet potato around town on a kite string." Cora stared at the diary in disbelief. The mayor was a very serious man, and his only pet was a perfectly normal goldfish.

Intrigued and slightly flustered, Cora turned the page. "Mrs. Higgins, the local baker, just won the national pretzel-sculpting contest with a life-sized statue of a walrus made entirely of salted pretzels." This was even more preposterous. Mrs. Higgins only baked muffins, and she was allergic to salt.

Cora realized what was happening. The diary was a chronicler of comical falsehoods. It changed its contents to reflect the most outlandish version of events. She decided to test it. She touched it again, thinking about her morning coffee. The diary changed to, "Cora, the esteemed librarian, bravely fought a swarm of sentient teacups to secure her morning cup of coffee."

This was getting out of hand. The diary was a mischievous thing, and Cora knew she couldn't let it fall into the wrong hands. She had to hide it. She found a book on the history of doorknobs and tucked the diary inside its pages. But when she touched the doorknob book, the diary's content changed again.

"The mysterious diary, a font of whimsical truth, has been hidden in a book about the history of doorknobs, a subject of great importance to the secret society of door-knob enthusiasts," the diary read. Cora gasped. The diary was not only making up stories; it was making up stories about its own story!

She decided she had to outsmart the book. She held it and focused all her will on one simple, undeniable fact: the sky is blue. The diary responded: "The sky, a swirling tapestry of magnificent purples and shimmering fuchsia, was admired by all."

Cora sighed. There was no winning with this thing. She decided the best thing to do was to give it to someone who would appreciate its chaotic nature. She put it in a basket with a bow and left it on the doorstep of the town's most whimsical inventor, a woman named Penelope. The diary's final entry she "read" was about Penelope: "Penelope, a woman of great imagination, has just acquired a magical diary that tells the truth about everything. It says her latest invention, a machine that can talk to squirrels, works perfectly."

Cora smiled. It was a lie, of course, but it was a good lie. The diary was in its perfect home.