9. The Diary

The opportunity arrived on a Tuesday, borne on a gust of wind. Mrs. Henderson, the neighbor across the street, was collecting her mail when she saw it: a small, leather-bound book lying open in the middle of Vivian’s immaculate lawn. It must have fallen from a bag, blown from a porch. The wind turned a page, a flash of tight, furious script. She knew she shouldn’t. Privacy was a sacred thing on this street. But the book lay there like a temptation, and the house was silent. 

She crossed the street, her heart thudding dully. She picked it up. The cover was soft, expensive. On the first page, in the same aggressive handwriting:

Property of Vivian Sterling. If found, you are trespassing on a soul. Burn it.

Below that, another line, scribbled as if in a hurry:

Or keep it. Let the record show I told the truth.

Mrs. Henderson took it inside. She didn’t read it immediately. She made another cup of tea, placed the book on her kitchen table, and stared at it. It felt like holding a live wire. Finally, she opened it to a random page near the middle. Mrs. Henderson’s breath caught. She flipped back. Her heart pounding, she took a deep breath and flipped again.

The whistle of the kettle screamed. Mrs. Henderson jumped, the diary falling from her hands and splaying open on the floor. It fell on the back pages. Blank pages, except for the very last one. On it, a single sentence, written in a different, shakier hand, the letters round and careful.

Underneath, in furious script, a reply was scrawled so hard it had torn the paper in one spot.

Mrs. Henderson slowly picked up the book. She walked to her front window. The house across the street was dark now, except for a single light in an upstairs room.

Mrs. Henderson looked down at the diary in her hands. She would return it. She would wait for Vivian to leave, and she would slip it back onto the lawn. It was not hers to keep. She wished to unknow what she now knew.