It wasn’t in the attic of her old house, or buried in the garden, or hidden behind a loose brick in the fireplace. It was in a drawer of her writing desk—a desk I’ve opened a hundred times. But today, I pulled the drawer out all the way. Tapped the bottom panel. It slid aside.
Diary, I don’t know what I know. But my hands are shaking. And for the first time in years, I feel like I’m on the edge of something real. emily's diary - chapter 1
Inside: a leather journal. Not hers. Mine. It wasn’t in the attic of her old
Tomorrow, I’ll read the next page.
Let me explain.
My name was embossed on the cover in gold letters I’ve never seen before. My birthdate beneath it. And when I opened to the first page, the ink was still wet. Tapped the bottom panel