Monday 9 March 2015

Diary





The diary is bound in crusty leather, stiff and cracked with age.  A tiny lock still hangs on the clasp, although rust has eaten through the metal to the point that the book falls open when you pick it up.  You wonder who left it here, in the attic?  The previous owners perhaps?  You carefully turn to the front to see if there is a name, or something to identify the owner.  The ink, once black, has faded to a rusty brown.
You frown.  It's your own name.  What are the odds that someone who had lived here before had the same name as you?  That's funny.  You intend to put it down, maybe ring the previous owners of the house to see if they know who it belongs to, but you just have to peek at the first page.  It's dated 1785, and reads "I know you won't believe it yet, but yes, that is your name.  Yours.  I am you.  I was you.  Please, read on.  These are the things you'll need to know - the mistakes I've made, which you can fix."
You snap the diary shut with a shake of your head.  As if you'd fall for a joke as silly as that.  You put the diary to one side, and carry on clearing out the attic.

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