But what I saw wasn't an exit.
It was a room—silent, bare, and untouched by time. A space suspended in stillness, neither warm nor cold. Neither welcoming nor hostile. Just… there.
A simple rectangular chamber devoid of ornamentation. The walls were plain, painted in a dull neutral shade that seemed designed to erase itself from memory. The air hung unmoving—thick with the kind of silence that amplified every breath.
In the center, a table.
Not grand, not ornate. Just… precise. The kind of minimalism that whispered purpose. Its polished surface gleamed under the soft light, its legs grounded in quiet authority. And atop that table—
A notebook.
Old. Brown. Weathered.
Its leather cover had once been vibrant, maybe a rich chestnut. Now, it was a muted relic, faded by time. Creases marked the surface like veins, and dark ink stains dotted the corners—silent scars of a hundred stories written in solitude.
It was closed.
The silence around it made it feel like a relic, like it had been waiting for us.
Ronald's voice broke the stillness.
"Huh? Where is this place? There's nothing in here."
He was right. The anticipation of escape had collapsed into anticlimax.
"I thought we were out, but we're stuck with a dead end," he muttered, disappointment clouding his voice.
I stepped forward, drawn to the table as though pulled by invisible threads. My hand reached out, cautious yet curious, and I lifted the notebook. Its texture was rough against my skin, like dry leaves about to crumble.
"Is that a diary?" Ronald asked, eyes narrowing at the old book.
"Seems like it."
"But who uses a diary nowadays?"
I didn't answer immediately. I turned the notebook over in my hands, letting my fingers absorb the texture, the weight of it. The thing practically radiated history.
"It looks like the diary will crumble anytime soon," I muttered. "It must have been at least a few hundred years old."
Ronald took a step closer. His brows furrowed.
"I sense an ominous vibe from it. Let's open it." A grin curved my lips.
"What? No!" He flinched at my mischievousness.
"You're still young. Where's your sense of adventure?" I smirked.
"After being chased by a humongous king cobra and a horde of zombies, no thanks. So let's leave it alone. Besides, it's rude to open—"
Flip.
Too late.
I cracked it open before he could finish. The paper sighed beneath my fingers, yellowed and thin, but still legible.
"Eh?! Llyne! Please listen to me first before doing anything!"
"Shhh." I pressed a finger to his lips without looking away. "Read it with me."
Ronald's resistance crumbled into reluctant silence as we both turned to the faded ink on the page. The air itself shifted—like the room had exhaled, finally allowed to speak again.
June 10th, 18XX
Dear Diary,
Today marks the beginning of a new chapter in my life, as I find myself putting pen to paper for the very first time in the form of a diary. It's an endeavor that I've contemplated for a while now, and after much internal debate, I've decided to embark on this journey of recording my thoughts and experiences.
Why, you may wonder? Well, it all began with a chance encounter that left an indelible mark on my heart. As I made my way home from school, the world around me seemed to blur into a monotonous routine until an unexpected encounter changed everything.
A beautiful lady crossed my path, and in that fleeting moment, time seemed to stand still. Her eyes held a depth of mystery and kindness that I couldn't ignore, and her smile was like a ray of sunshine that pierced through the mundane reality of my daily life. I was struck by how a simple smile from a stranger could brighten my day and fill it with a newfound sense of wonder.
Her presence lingered in my thoughts long after our paths had diverged, leaving me with a sense of yearning and curiosity. And so, I found myself here, penning down my thoughts in the hopes of capturing the essence of that moment and the emotions it stirred within me.
Writing a diary feels like embarking on a personal voyage of self-discovery. The pages before me hold the potential to become a repository of my dreams, fears, and aspirations. I hope that by chronicling my journey, I can navigate the currents of life with a clearer perspective, much like the lady's smile illuminated my day.
As the sun sets outside my window, casting warm hues across the sky, I look forward to sharing more of my experiences within these pages. Until then, dear diary, I bid you goodnight.
Yours,
[Anon]
I blinked. The words shimmered with emotion, but all I could think was—
"What a lonely person. He has no one to share with, so he chats with a non-living thing," I said, my tone flat, somewhere between pity and judgment.
Ronald looked up from the page. His eyes were softer.
"I think he's a romantic person," he said gently.
I turned to him, raising an eyebrow. "You see romance in this?"
"Absolutely." His gaze never left the page. "He's infatuated. Captivated by a chance encounter. It's as if his world has been painted with new colours because of her smile."
I studied him for a beat.
His voice wasn't mocking. It wasn't naive either. There was something sincere there—something I hadn't seen before.
"Maybe you're right," I murmured, my gaze drifting back to the page. The ink, once just writing, now pulsed with a subtle warmth. A romantic's yearning. A loner's confession.
There was beauty in it.
June 15th, 18XX
Dear Diary,
I saw the beautiful lady again today. Just as before, she appeared in that same spot at the same time. Once more, I found myself lingering behind a tree, hidden by shadows, as I stole glances at her. My shyness holds me back from approaching her, but my heart yearns to bridge the distance that separates us.
Instead of letting my shyness dictate my actions, I decided to take a different approach this time. I reached into my bag and retrieved my sketchbook and pencils. With careful strokes, I began to sketch her, each line an attempt to capture the essence of her beauty. I am embarrassed to admit that I possess some skill as a painter—I've even won awards for my work—but as I sketched her, I realized that no matter how talented I may be, I couldn't do justice to the beauty that stood before me.
Her eyes, radiant and deep, held secrets that my pencil couldn't decipher. Her smile, like a gentle sunrise, brought warmth to my sketch but failed to convey the genuine kindness that radiated from her. With each stroke of the pencil, I felt both exhilaration and frustration—exhilaration at the thought of preserving her image on paper and frustration at my inability to truly capture her essence.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a warm glow over the landscape, I looked down at my incomplete portrait. The lines seemed to dance on the page, a testament to my efforts to immortalize her in my art. And yet, I knew that my sketch fell short of the ethereal beauty that had captivated my heart.
With a sigh and a mixture of emotions, I closed my sketchbook and returned it to my bag. My heart remained heavy with both disappointment and the memory of her presence. As I walked away from that spot, I carried with me the knowledge that some things are meant to be experienced, not captured on paper.
Until our paths cross again, dear diary, I leave this page as a tribute to the lady who has become an enigma in my life.
Yours,
[Anon]
"Uwaaaah! Good luck, Mr. Anon! You can do it. I believe in you!" Ronald exclaimed, pumping both fists like a cheerleader.
I groaned. "Are you going to comment on every entry now?"
He laughed sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. "Oops, my bad. Please continue."
With a quiet chuckle, I turned the page again—half eager, half unsure of what would come next.
The air around us remained silent.
But somehow, the diary… felt louder than everything.