The small bell chimed, announcing someone's entrance into the shop. The wooden door eased open, letting a breath of cold air meet the shop's muted warmth, while a shy, weak sunbeam slipped across the creaking wooden floor and the threadbare rug.
"Good morning."
The newcomer spoke as he brushed flecks of snow from his dark coat, his hands moving to loosen the thick scarf at his neck. The young man smiled—unmoved by the old shopkeeper's deliberate indifference—enjoying that stubborn part of himself, that habitual frown of his like a guard forced to watch over the place rather than its owner.
He stepped slowly, listening to the floor's creak, his eyes roaming with an undisguised, lingering admiration over the neglected old goods on the shelves. The shop's scent dulled his senses, a faint trace of men's cologne braided with his own smell, and the aroma of wood, metal, and worn plastic that tempted him with a desire to fade away among the racks.
One hand settled into a pocket while the other fidgeted with his light hair, trying, modestly, to tame it. He took in his surroundings—children's toys from different cultures in mismatched styles and colors, kitchen tools and repair bits and other things: some pleasing to the eye, some barely worth a glance. Yet it all tempted him; there was a seduction in it—he found uglier things beautiful, even alluring.
He wandered as if visiting a museum or an art show. As he was about to leave, tired of the old man's half-hearted sluggishness, something caught his eye. It wasn't unique or flashy—just a book. A book with a cover that, for a moment, seemed carved from thin wood; a crude drawing of an eye on it, an eye that, in spite of the clumsy sketch, looked like his own.
Without thinking much, he pulled the book free. He tapped the cover as if to confirm his hunch, opened it, and found a notebook inside. The paper had once been fiercely white; now it showed slight yellowing and the edges curled with age—evidence that, though worn, it was a modern kind of notebook, perhaps from some years ago. That sight stole his attention for a moment. He read the first line on the opening page:
"My diary."
He tilted his head, puzzled.
Why a diary in a secondhand shop? he wondered.
He flipped the page and found neat handwriting, carved almost like an engraving along the thin lines—something that invited contemplation more than immediate reading.
> I heard someone say once that we need to speak the heaviness inside us—those messy, illogical thoughts we might be ashamed to say even to ourselves. I scoffed at him. I exploded with anger at his words, or perhaps I resented him for saying that negative energy won't be released until you try to get rid of it. What's the best way? He said, "Write it down and burn the paper." According to him, it eases things. Though I know my illness is not energy.
> And now here I am… writing. I don't know why, or for whom. I don't think I have the courage to burn a page. Maybe later it will be burned… or myself.
2021/4/5
The young man shut the notebook, a brief daze passing over him, and a desire began to itch in his hands to open it again and keep reading.
He approached the counter with a warm smile—warm to anyone but the old man, who looked him up and down like an unresolved grudge. "I'll take it," he said, still smiling, paid, and left in a quick stride, the old man's grumble trailing behind him like a fading memory.
"I'm back," he called, drawing a moment's attention at home as he slipped past the sitting room and kitchen, clutching the notebook to his chest until he reached his room, where he finally exhaled.
He threw his body onto the bed, shrugged off his coat and scarf, one leg dangling to the floor, and reached eagerly for the notebook.
Curiosity had him—an urge to admire that elegant script and the clean pages despite the obvious age. He wondered, quietly, what he might find in those pages: a secret? an embarrassment? something to pull him out of the boredom and routine of his days.
He turned to the next page and began to read.
> I really don't know what I'm supposed to write. My days are dull, monotonous. Nothing new. I try to pull something to remember, but nothing comes. Maybe any thought will do?
2021/4/6
He drew his lips together, unimpressed by the thinness of the entries, and turned another page.
> Today was exhausting. Too much noise and lessons. I barely endured the classroom's din. My head is ringing; I can't find rest.
> Maybe I'll try to write more until I get used to it. I'm still unsure this idea of "releasing energy" will work.
2021/4/7
On another page:
> My days are crowded. I can't find room to breathe. Everyone around me is annoying; they think their problems are more important than anything else. I never feel at ease.
2021/4/8
He regretted, briefly, buying the notebook on impulse—he had expected more—and he flipped through the remaining pages with a bored frown.
But then—
A pause.
For a second: torn pages. Other pages dabbled in what looked like tears and dried blood.
Blood?
The young man froze, staring at one page as if someone had pressed their palm across it—there was a handprint dark with blood. He straightened, exhaled heavily, and a swarm of thoughts circled his mind.
Whose blood? he asked himself. Is it theirs? Why? And if it's not theirs, who's is it?
His curiosity drew him back to the first pages again—why, how?
> I hate this place.
2021/4/9
Just one line.
> I don't understand, and I won't try to understand. If you're not ready to build a family, then why—? Is this a game? I'm tired of all this nonsense. They treat me as if I'm the one at fault, but I didn't ask to be born. Yet they say I'm the mistake, so I must bear it. How did I sin? Is it my existence? My quiet? My isolation? I don't hurt anyone—so why? I'm really tired. I don't know how to keep going. Everything is heavy and annoying. I hate everyone and can't stand noise; everything sounds like shouting in my ears. I can't endure anymore.
2021/4/15
He hummed under his breath with a frown and returned to compare the pages.
He tilted his head. The early pages were ordered, neat, written in a beautiful, attractive hand. Now—this was unclear. Is this the beginning?
He kept turning and read the words: some repeated with hatred aimed at a particular person; others described fatigue and sorrow. Some pages were nothing but the repetition of one word—"I hate him." On others, clear tear stains marked the ink.
He read for a while until he stopped at one page that looked particularly wretched.
> Why can't I succeed even once? Everything I do is failure. I don't understand. No matter how I study, I only get average marks. He keeps blaming me as if I want this. He shouts at me and threatens to hit me—as if he's never done it before. He frightens me so much I barely tolerate being around him. I wish I could disappear—fade away into a place where no one would find me. Tomorrow I have an exam and I can barely open my eyes. I feel so sleepy.
His nose started bleeding—again. It wasn't the first time. A nosebleed was better than the bleeding from being struck.
Am I so unimportant to him?
2023/10/16
He furrowed his brow at the trembling script and the two dried drops of blood on the page, touching the spot with his fingertip as if something fragile might cling there. Only the first pages were calm and lovely; now…
What had caused all this mess? Was it abuse? Certainly—no, of course it was—but by whom? Who possessed such power to harm another human being so completely? Why?
He bit his lower lip with questions he secretly knew had no answers. The diary's author was not there to ask.
He flipped the page and, in his mind, decided it would be the last; his curiosity had dwindled to nothing, leaving only the desire to finish what had been started—and even that desire faded.
> I don't know. Am I dealing with a sane person or a lunatic? I don't understand. Since childhood I have not understood him, and maybe I won't understand him even in death. He doesn't let me go, and he won't leave. I don't know what to do or how to escape. If I ran away—what about my mother? How would she manage? She says I am her refuge, her reason for staying. But even I don't want to stay. I want to flee. I cannot stay; I cannot bear it any longer. He is a monster—truer than my nightmares, a whispering shadow in the dark that will one day kill me. He said so. And he does not lie.
2023/11/12
The same trembling hand, the same choking phrases. Yet now the young man had an image of what that "monster" might be, the figure the stranger called by that name.