I sat on the edge of my bed, staring at the locked drawer. My hands were resting on my knees, stiff, trembling, and I couldn't bring myself to move. The diary was there. So close. Right there. Like a pulse, a heartbeat I could almost touch. My chest felt tight, heavy, and I realized I hadn't breathed in a long time. My heart hammered against my ribs, a rapid, desperate rhythm that seemed to echo the pounding in my head.
I remembered him. Mark. His secretive smiles. The way he paused every time I asked about the diary, pretending it was nothing, yet his eyes always betrayed him. Late nights when the world was silent and the house still, he would write in it quietly, carefully, like the words mattered more than life itself. Maybe they did. Maybe they mattered to me more than I'd realized.
I swallowed. My throat was dry. My hands itched to move, to touch, to feel the leather under my fingers. But I froze. Fear. Curiosity. Grief. All tangled together into a tight knot inside me. What if the diary held answers I wasn't ready for? What if it changed everything I thought I knew about Mark? About his death? About me? My chest ached just thinking about it.
I took a shaky breath. I wanted it. I wanted to see it, to hold it, to read every line. Maybe it would bring him back, even if only in memory. Maybe it would tell me why. Maybe it would tell me who I could trust—and who had wanted him gone. My fingers twitched. My legs felt weak. I couldn't sit still. I had to move.
I stood slowly, each motion deliberate, like I was testing the strength of my body. My hands reached for the drawer, hovering just above the smooth surface. The key was there. Hidden where only I would have known, a small trick of Mark's mind, a secret between us. My fingers closed around it, and I felt the cold metal press into my palm. I held it like it was a lifeline.
I could feel the weight of the house around me. The silence was loud. Too loud. The air felt thick. Heavy. My pulse thundered in my ears, my stomach fluttered like it wanted to escape from me. Outside the door, I imagined the world still moving. People living their lives. But here, in this room, time seemed frozen. Just me. Mark's diary. And the secrets it held.
I took a step closer, fumbling slightly with the key. My hands shook too much to be steady. My breath hitched. I could feel every drop of sweat, every tremor, every heartbeat as if Mark's own pulse had somehow returned inside mine. I slipped the key into the lock, twisting it carefully. The click sounded impossibly loud. I jumped slightly. My chest tightened. My fingers were slick. I gripped the drawer with both hands, and I felt a wave of something—anticipation? dread? grief?—wash over me like ice water.
And then I opened it.
The diary was there. Leather soft and worn, Mark's initials embossed on the cover. My fingers hovered over it, afraid to touch, afraid not to. I traced the edges lightly, feeling the ridges under my fingertips, imagining the words pressed onto the pages, his thoughts, his fears, his secrets. The smell of old paper, familiar and comforting, hit me. It made my chest tighten again.
I sat back down slowly, holding it on my lap, cradling it like he was there. My hands shook. My breath came in shallow, ragged gasps. I could feel the heat behind my eyes, the sting of tears I hadn't allowed myself to cry yet. The diary felt heavy. Not heavy in weight, but heavy with his presence, with the life we had shared, with the moments stolen from me now forever.
I was about to lift the cover when there was a knock at the door. A soft, polite knock, but sharp enough to slice through the quiet. I froze. My heart jumped. My pulse slammed against my throat.
"Nanny Berry?" I whispered, voice barely audible.
The door creaked open slowly, and there she was. Her eyes were soft, her movements gentle, and she carried a tray with a small cup steaming in the center. The scent of tea drifted toward me, warm, calming, familiar. I hesitated.
"It's late," she said softly, setting the tray down beside me. "You need rest, darling. Drink this. It will help you sleep."
I stared at the cup. Tea. So simple. So ordinary. But my stomach knotted. Tea isnt what i needed
My hands hovered over it, trembling. I wanted to say no. I wanted to push it away.
But Nanny Berry didn't let me decide. She placed her hand gently over mine, warm, solid.
"Please," she said. Her voice didn't demand. It invited. Suggested. Pleaded. "Just a sip. For your own good."
I took a slow breath. My chest tightened. My head felt dizzy. My stomach turned. My fingers closed lightly around the cup, and I brought it to my lips. One careful sip. Hot. Bitter. Sweet. Familiar. Comfortable. My throat burned slightly as I swallowed.
And then…
Everything blurred.
My eyes couldn't focus. The room tilted. The diary slipped from my hands. I reached for it, but my fingers touched nothing but air. My vision swam, colors blending into each other. The edges of the walls twisted and melted away. The warmth of the tea spread through me, but it wasn't comforting anymore—it was heavy, like lead, pressing down on my body.
"You need rest, darling," Nanny Berry's voice whispered, soft, almost distant.
I couldn't respond. My lips parted, but no sound came. My knees buckled. My back hit the floor. The diary landed beside me with a soft thud I barely registered. I tried to lift my head, tried to focus, tried to breathe, but the world had gone fuzzy, soft around the edges. My hands felt numb. My mind felt foggy, like a thick blanket had covered it.
My heart raced, and yet I felt strangely… still. My chest ached, but I couldn't distinguish between pain, fear, or sleep pulling me down. My eyelids fluttered. I wanted to open them, wanted to see, wanted to fight, but the energy to do so was slipping away.
The diary was there. Right beside me. So close. So impossibly close. My fingers twitched toward it, but I couldn't reach. My mind screamed at me to grab it, to see what he had left behind. To touch him one last time through his words. But my body betrayed me.
The last thing I heard, faint but clear, like it had come from far away, was Nanny Berry's voice again, soft, insistent:
"You need rest, darling."
And then… nothing.