Chapter Five: Traces and Tension
Isabelle couldn't focus in class the next day.
The diary sat hidden in her locker, wrapped in an old hoodie. Every hour, her mind drifted back to those cryptic lines. Whoever had written them—herself, or someone else—had known exactly how she felt now. Disconnected. Borrowed. Trapped in someone else's skin.
After school, instead of heading home, she walked the long way around the building to the back entrance of the library. Her fingers itched to open the diary again, to search for some hint, some clue that would explain all of this.
The school library was nearly empty. Sunlight spilled through the high windows, dust motes dancing like secrets in the air. She tucked herself into a back corner and opened the notebook.
"Mrs. Cordelia says some souls are restless. That they don't always stay where they belong."
Mrs. Cordelia.
The name sparked something—vague, like a scent she couldn't place. She flipped further.
"Sometimes I forget who I'm supposed to be. But Cordelia says that's when I'm closest to the truth."
A teacher? A counselor? Or something else?
She pulled out her phone and typed "Mrs. Cordelia Morganridge High" into the search bar. Nothing. Not even a yearbook photo.
Weird.
Meanwhile, in the gym, Alex wiped the sweat from his neck and stared at his phone. No message. No reply.
He'd sent Isabelle a playlist the night before—songs she used to love. Or at least, songs Belle used to love. She hadn't even opened the message.
"She ghosting you?" his teammate joked, tossing him a towel.
"No," Alex said too quickly. "She's just... different lately."
His friend smirked. "Girls change. You either keep up, or get out of the way."
But Alex wasn't ready to give up. Not yet.
That night, Isabelle sat at her desk, the diary spread open beneath her lamp. Every page brought more questions.
Then, tucked behind the back cover, she found a folded paper—thin, like tracing paper.
A drawing.
It was a sketch of a woman with long braids and a feathered cloak, standing in front of a crooked tree. The caption underneath: "Cordelia—Guide of the Lost."
Isabelle stared.
This wasn't a teacher.
This was mythology.
But why had Belle—her former self—been writing about her? Had she known what was coming?
And if so... what did she want from Isabelle now?
Her phone buzzed.
Alex: I miss the old you. But I think I might like this version even more.
Her chest tightened. The Isabelle who existed now didn't know how to reply—not yet.
But she would.
She had to.