The bell rang.
This time, it made my skin crawl—not because it was loud, but because it felt late. Like I'd missed something while I wasn't looking.
Then the buses rolled in.
Yellow. Clean. Loud. Doors hissing open as kids spilled into the streets, laughing, shoving, complaining about homework as if they hadn't just appeared out of nowhere.
I just stared.
"What…?" I murmured.
I pulled out my phone.
2:07 PM.
My stomach dropped.
No. That's wrong. That has to be wrong.
I'd sat with the old man barely twenty minutes ago—maybe thirty? I tried to trace the time backward. My thoughts slid off each other, nothing sticking. Empty stretches where memories should be.
I stood slowly, brushed dirt from my clothes, and picked up the journal.
It felt heavier than before. Or maybe that was just me.
"Why am I even doing this?" I muttered.
The town didn't answer. It never did. It just kept moving.
People crossed the street. Shops opened. Kids argued about homework. Someone laughed too loudly. Someone else told a kid not to run.
Normal. Aggressively normal.
I let out a short, sharp laugh.
"Okay," I told myself. "Be serious."
I looked at the journal. Then at my phone. Then back at the town.
Every weird thing so far? Totally explainable.
The pigeon talking? Hallucination.
The old man disappearing? My brain filling in blanks.
The time skip? Dissociation. Stress.
The thing in the forest? Darkness. Fear. Adrenaline. Imagination.
I nodded at the mental jury I'd assembled.
"I've been offline less than a day," I muttered. "No dopamine hits. No constant noise. My brain's just… compensating. Making things dramatic so I don't die of boredom."
The town seemed to agree.
That's when I noticed the power lines.
Black cables stretched overhead, neat and obvious, connecting poles I could've sworn weren't there before. Transformers hummed quietly.
Chest loosening.
"There you go," I said, almost smug. "I just wasn't paying attention."
I flipped the journal in my hands.
"All this," I scoffed, "because I stopped scrolling."
The thought actually made me smile.
Maybe social media was holding my sanity together. Maybe all that 'brain rot' was a stabilizer. A sedative.
I stretched, rolled my shoulders, felt the stiffness settle into something familiar. Real. Physical. Safe.
Then I checked my phone again.
No service.
"…Still nothing," I muttered.
Something twitched in the back of my mind. A thought trying to surface.
I shoved it down.
"Later," I told myself. "You can freak out later."
I tucked the journal under my arm and started walking, letting the crowd absorb me. Kids bumped into me. Someone apologized. Someone else didn't. Life kept happening around me like it always did.
I'd wait for Irithiel.
Simple. Normal. Sensible.
---
Back at the locksmith shop, hands in pockets, I stared at the dented metal door like it owed me answers. The streets were calm. Too calm. That kind of calm that makes you suspect someone somewhere is holding their breath.
Then she came running.
Irithiel. Out of nowhere—or maybe I'd just missed her—but her footsteps pounded against the cobblestones, light and quick, breath ragged.
She skidded to a stop in front of me and lifted her hand.
There it was. The key. Small, intricate, delicate—like it belonged in a fairy tale rather than a dusty old journal.
I smiled. Inside, I was already running through the possibilities.
This is it. Proof. Proof that I was just making all this up. Hallucinations, withdrawal, boredom-induced paranoia. Fine. Let's see what your little journal hides, Mystic Falls.
I could already see myself tucking it into a briefcase later, walking away, shaking my head, ready to go back to hating this town like a normal summer cynic.
Irithiel stood there, chest heaving, eyes wide, grin like a golden retriever hoping for a pat.
It made my skin crawl.
I ignored it. Took the key. Twisted it between my fingers.
"Thanks," I said. Quick. Efficient. Done.
She followed as I headed to the library.
"Bobby," she said, voice low, hesitant, almost whispering, "do you… have anything to say?"
I tilted my head, confused.
"Uh… no," I said after a pause.
Then I waved her off, sharp, final. "I'll talk later."
Her feet stomped, hard enough to echo. Tears glistened in her eyes as she muttered, "Asshole!" before sprinting down the street, hair bouncing like it had its own mind.
I watched her leave, intrigued, confused, disturbed.
But more importantly… focused.
I had a journal to open. And if Mystic Falls was going to prove anything today, it would be whether my brain was rotting from lack of internet—or if the town was actually alive in ways I hadn't accounted for.
---
The library smelled of polished wood and dust, quiet but alive. Adults and a handful of kids dotted the aisles, heads bent over books, fingers tracing lines like sacred rituals. I walked past them all and found a desk near a window. Sunlight spilled across the floor, dust particles glittering like tiny stars.
The journal sat in my backpack, heavy and expectant.
My mind, of course, didn't let me just focus on it. Daniel. That smug little creep. Probably laughing somewhere, thinking he'd pulled off some sick prank. Maybe all of this—the bells, the buses, the pigeons—was his doing. It made sense. Why else would a town this… normal-appearing be trying so hard to mess with me?
Then Irithiel flitted back into my thoughts. That stupid hopeful grin. Should I have said thanks? Maybe apologized? No. Later. Later, when the journal didn't sit in front of me, mocking my indecision.
I set the leather-bound book on the desk. My fingers traced every curve, every crease, every groove of the clasp. Solid. Heavy. Real. Physical.
Moment of truth.
I reached for the key.
And my mind screamed.
Not literally. Not in sound. But in a flash of "No. Don't." Like a bell in my head had been wrung, metal shrieking against my skull. My hand froze.
Then it got loud. Too loud.
I jerked. Chair flipped beneath me with a clatter that echoed through the quiet stacks. Heads turned. Eyes narrowed. A woman hissed, "Shush!"
The normal library sounds—the rustle of pages, quiet footsteps—snapped back.
The journal sat there. Innocent. Waiting.
I shook my head. No. No.
I needed space. Distance. Perspective. The forest. Where it all started. Where the first bell rang. Where the first impossibility had happened.
If I was going to open this journal… it had to be where the town's rules weren't crowding in. Where the illusions—if illusions they were—couldn't reach me.
---
I ran. The forest swallowed me. Shadows stretched, canopy knitting into a cathedral of green. The smell of pine and damp earth hit me. Grounding. Safe.
Then I found it.
A rock. Massive. Ancient. My mind hadn't seen it before—not consciously—but it called. Sit here. Now.
I dropped my bag and lowered myself. Leaves and needles stuck to my pants, but I didn't care. I inhaled. The forest filled me. Birds chirped in distant harmonies. Wind whispered through branches. For a moment, I belonged somewhere bigger than Mystic Falls.
I exhaled. Steadying my hands, I pulled the journal from my bag. Its weight was comforting. Tangible. Real.
The key felt cold in my palm. I slid it into the lock.
The forest exhaled with me.
I turned the key.
Wind kicked up suddenly, whipping leaves across the clearing.
Then—I felt it. Gelatinous warmth, pulsating, spreading through my fingers, up my arms, dissipating within seconds.
And then—silence.
The birds stopped. Wind halted. Even the forest seemed to pause, holding its breath.
I swallowed. Heart hammering. I opened the journal.
The first page was neat, precise, deliberate. Dark ink against yellowed parchment.
To you, my most beloved Julie,
These are my records of the seen and unseen. This place is truly a wonder, and I am overjoyed that, with this, I may share it with you.
I exhaled. A soft, polite sigh. Then froze.
British…?