Welcome to Penny’s Diary, a contemporary urban-fantasy serial. Read new diary entries every Thursday. Supporting readers can also access a weekly Writer’s Commentary, along with immersive audio and eBook editions, after each entry.
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Saturday, April 18, 2026
Sherlocks Everywhere
After the USB excitement last night, we decided to reconvene at Cascades for lunch.
Which, in theory, should have meant fries, milkshakes, and pretending our town hadn’t turned into a full-blown true-crime convention.
In reality?
It looked like someone had announced open auditions for another Sherlock Holmes movie.
There were even more amateur detectives than last week—clusters of people on sidewalks, phones out, whispering theories like they were about to crack the case. Half of them were probably livestreaming it. The other half looked like they’d watched three documentaries and decided they were now qualified investigators.
Honestly, just walking past them was exhausting.
I pushed into Cascades and headed upstairs to our usual booth.
Normally the second floor is quiet—the kind of place where you can actually hear yourself think.
Today?
Not even close.
Even up there the buzz carried from downstairs—speculation, rumors, people convinced they were one clue away from solving Jemma Landry’s disappearance.
Part of me wanted to roll my eyes.
The other part felt weirdly relieved.
Because as long as the town stayed obsessed with that, nobody was paying attention to me.
Small mercies.
Ellie was already there, guarding our booth like it might get stolen if she looked away.
I slid in beside her while we waited for Teddy to arrive.
We ordered food, waited for the noise to settle, and talked over our sunset filming trip to Hellgate Forest tonight.
The USB Rabbit Hole
Teddy arrived and dropped his backpack across from us like he’d just run a marathon instead of climbing the stairs.
Once the food showed up and the Sherlock Convention noise faded into background chaos, he finally brought up the thing hovering over the table since we sat down.
The USB flash drive.
He pulled it from his pocket and set it on the table like it might explode.
Which honestly didn’t feel that unrealistic.
Apparently the files are way bigger than we thought.
Not just messages or documents—whole folders, diagrams, instructions. The kind of stuff Teddy described as “definitely not designed for a school Chromebook.”
(Translation: whoever built this thing expected it to be opened on something a lot more serious.)
The drive itself even has a built-in thumbprint reader.
Teddy’s thumbprint.
Meaning someone went to a lot of trouble to make sure it only works for him.
And the instructions apparently include directions for building a computer specifically meant to run the files safely—either a PC or laptop, but something completely isolated from the internet.
Basically a machine that lives off-grid.
There’s even a section about making a copy of the drive for another “owner,” but only after the secure machine is built and the files are checked.
Which sounds like the kind of step you include when you expect things to go very wrong.
Ellie asked if that meant Teddy was about to build some kind of super hacker computer.
Teddy didn’t exactly confirm that.
But he also didn’t deny it.
His plan is to build the laptop version so we can hide it inside the Meridian window seat with the rest of our reset-proof stash.
First step: he’s putting together a list of everything the build needs.
Which probably means half the internet and at least one mildly suspicious electronics order.
Because the second he started explaining it, something clicked in my brain.
This USB isn’t just information.
It’s a tool.
Maybe the first real one we’ve had.
And suddenly the mystery feels a lot less like something happening to us—and a lot more like something we might actually be able to fight back against.
After we finished eating, we confirmed the diary deep dive for tomorrow afternoon instead.
Ellie and I still have to film our Media Studies sunset video tonight.
Apparently sunsets refuse to cooperate with detective work.
Shadow Ridge Sunset
By evening, Ellie and I were standing in the Hellgate Forest parking lot waiting for Noah and Olivia.
Media Studies mission: capture the sunset from Shadow Ridge for our 360-degree video.
Real mission: pretend life is normal for a couple of hours.
Noah pulled in a few minutes later in his ridiculously shiny black Mustang, looking like it had just rolled out of a car commercial.
Olivia hopped out first, already talking about camera angles and lighting like she was directing a nature documentary.
Ellie and I grabbed the gear and started up the trail.
Noah and Olivia drifted ahead of us arguing about tripod height.
Which gave Ellie and me a chance to talk quietly.
Actually—whisper.
Because apparently when someone drops a mysterious encrypted USB flash drive into your life, normal conversation volume feels irresponsible.
I told her the part that keeps bothering me isn’t the files.
It’s who left it.
Someone wanted Teddy to have it.
Not random people.
Teddy.
Which means they know him.
Or they know us.
Ellie squeezed my hand and said maybe the person who left it is trying to help.
Maybe.
But people who help usually introduce themselves first.
Instead we’ve got a thumbprint lock, instructions for building an off-grid computer, and a pile of files we don’t even know how to open yet.
Which feels less like help and more like preparation.
For what, exactly, I have no idea.
Eventually the trail leveled out near Shadow Ridge.
The forest opened up and the sky went ridiculous with color—orange, pink, purple like paint spilled across the horizon.
Even Noah went quiet.
That’s how you know it’s impressive.
At some point while we were standing there watching the sun drop behind the trees, Ellie’s hand slipped into mine.
Just casually.
Like it was the most natural thing in the world.
And for a few minutes, standing there with the sky burning out over the forest and the camera quietly recording above the ridge, I let myself pretend this moment might stick.
Even though I know better.
Some memories stay.
Some don’t.
And right now I honestly have no idea which kind this one will be.
Quiet Ride Back
Noah ended up playing chauffeur on the ride back to town.
The car ride was quiet.
Olivia was the first stop. Noah dropped her off on Cedar Lane, and she waved goodbye like we’d just finished a normal school project instead of wandering into the middle of an active missing-person investigation.
Then it was my turn.
Noah pulled up outside the Meridian, the neon cinema sign glowing across the windshield.
Ellie stepped out with me.
For a second neither of us said anything.
Then she gave me a quick hug.
The kind that lasts just long enough to say I know you’re not okay without actually saying it.
She probably noticed the migraine creeping back in.
Or maybe she could tell my brain had started its usual late-night overthinking marathon.
Jemma.
The flash drive.
The diary deep dive.
Ellie climbed back into the car, Noah gave his usual impatient little honk, and they headed off toward South Bay Peninsula.
I stood there for a moment watching the taillights disappear.
Sunday, April 19, 2026
Cupcake Recon Mission
After breakfast—eggs and toast—I headed out.
Because tradition.
Cupcakes from Cascades.
Sugar will absolutely be required for today’s diary deep dive.
Main Street looked calmer than it has all week, but not in a good way.
More like the town had finally run out of nervous energy.
The Sherlock crowd that had been swarming Meridia Falls a few days ago had mostly disappeared. I’m guessing they moved on to the next mystery—or retreated to the internet to theorize from a safe distance.
A few stragglers were still wandering around with cameras and tripods like they were filming a documentary nobody actually asked for.
But mostly the town felt quieter.
Waiting.
The search is still technically ongoing, but the frantic early energy has faded into that uncomfortable middle phase.
No answers.
No real updates.
Just a lot of people checking their phones and hoping someone else finds something first.
Cascades smelled like fresh coffee and melted chocolate when I walked in, which instantly improved things.
I bought four double-chocolate cupcakes for the Meridian operation.
Because if we’re about to dig through diary entries, we’re going to need backup.
Chocolate backup.
Operation Hacker Laptop
Ellie arrived first and made a beeline for the window seat—her favorite spot, mostly because it keeps important things safe after Clearwater.
Which, by extension, helps keep us safe too.
“Supplies,” I announced, pointing at the cupcake box sitting on my desk.
She immediately approved of that plan.
A few minutes later Teddy showed up, backpack slung over one shoulder like he’d just come from a lecture instead of volunteering for another round of Penny’s Past Is a Puzzle Box.
Which meant the team was officially assembled.
Before we even opened the diaries, Teddy pulled out his notebook.
Apparently he’d spent part of the morning working on something he called a shopping list.
For the hacking laptop.
The idea, according to Teddy, is that a properly isolated machine might let us dig into Clearwater in ways normal computers can’t.
Encrypted storage.
Air-gapped networking.
Tools that never touch the regular internet.
Basically the digital equivalent of putting on gloves before touching something radioactive.
The parts list looked less like a computer build and more like the budget sheet for a small rocket launch.
Ellie leaned over Teddy’s shoulder and stared at the total on the paper.
“Okay,” she said slowly. “That’s… not small.”
Then she shrugged.
“We split it.”
Teddy looked at me.
I thought about the USB drive.
About Clearwater.
About the way our lives keep resetting like someone somewhere is hitting a cosmic undo button.
And honestly?
Having a machine that might finally give us answers sounded pretty good.
“We’ll build it,” I said.
“After the next reality shift.”
Because when Clearwater does its thing again, we’ll have four weeks—
I glanced at the calendar.
Five weeks.
Five weeks to build a hacker laptop and maybe figure out what Clearwater is hiding.
Totally normal life planning.
Memory Blasts and Anniversaries
Once Teddy’s hacker laptop master plan was officially approved by the committee of three extremely underqualified teenagers, we got back to the reason we were sitting around the table.
We were heading toward the end of Diary Two.
Ellie took my hand as I touched the page.
The memory blasts came thick and fast.
It still feels surreal every time it happens—sharing them with Ellie.
Teddy kept adding Ellie’s descriptions into the index. At this point we were operating like a well-oiled machine.
The memories were smaller things.
School days.
Mom.
Gramps.
Fragments of normal life.
Then a Clearwater observation memory surfaced.
It felt strangely calm compared to the burning-building chaos from last time.
Logan was there again.
But not at Clearwater.
Somewhere similar.
A large room with cushions scattered across the floor—like some kind of therapy space.
Nothing dramatic happened.
Just another piece of the cycle.
Leaving the letter.
Forgetting.
Remembering again.
Then the anniversary surfaced.
I hadn’t realized we were this close.
One year since Dad and Sean died.
I had to pull out of that memory blast.
Nothing terrible happened, but I could feel everything younger me felt.
So could Ellie.
The grief nearly overwhelmed both of us.
Ellie held me for a long time after that.
Honestly, I could’ve stayed in her arms forever.
The Woman in the Mirror
After the cupcakes were gone and the sugar boost kicked in, we went back to the diaries.
Page after page.
Smaller memories again—nothing dramatic. Mostly everyday things—school days, random conversations, normal life moments Clearwater apparently didn’t consider important enough to erase.
Then we reached the very last entry of the year.
Right after Christmas.
And that’s when we saw her.
The memory blast began like normal.
Younger me was in my room at the Meridian.
Sitting at the desk.
Writing in the diary.
Except I wasn’t alone.
Someone was standing behind me. I could feel the presence, and Ellie could too.
A woman’s voice.
Soft.
Familiar.
And not familiar at the same time.
“Don’t look at me,” she said. “Remember the secret.”
Through younger me’s eyes we caught a quick reflection in the mirror.
Just a flicker.
Dark hair.
Purple highlights.
Her face blurred by the angle and the light.
But for a second it looked wrongly familiar.
Like seeing a blurry photo of someone you almost recognize.
Ellie and I pulled out of the memory at the same time.
Teddy looked up immediately, wondering what had happened.
After a moment, I touched the page again.
We stepped back into the memory.
Again.
Every time we reached the same moment—
The voice.
The warning.
The reflection.
But no matter how many times we tried, we couldn’t get a clearer look.
Younger me always looked away before the reflection came fully into focus.
Like she’d been taught not to look.
Just the same fleeting glimpse.
Dark hair.
Purple highlights.
And a woman who looked an awful lot like an older version of me.
So now we have a new mystery.
Someone was helping Younger Penny remember things Clearwater wanted her to forget.
She couldn’t have done that on her own.
But I never imagined that someone might be future me.
Or someone who only looked like me.
Which feels like the kind of plot twist that should probably come with a warning label.
Pizza and Movies
By the time we finished tearing apart who the mystery woman could be and coming up with no sane answers, Teddy looked like his brain had reached maximum capacity.
Which is Teddy’s polite way of saying it was time to go home.
I let him take the fourth cupcake for Squirt, which honestly feels like a tradition now.
That left Ellie and me alone in the Meridian.
For a few minutes neither of us said anything.
My head still felt weird after the memory blasts. Not painful exactly—not like before Ellie shared them—just that slightly off feeling like my brain tried to load too many tabs at once.
And that reflection—me, or someone who looked like me—was still rattling around in my head.
Ellie must’ve noticed.
“Pizza?” she asked.
Honestly, pizza has solved at least seventy percent of the world’s problems historically.
So we ordered one.
And a sneaky one for Gramps.
Then we did something radical.
We stopped thinking about the mystery woman, Clearwater, or the diaries.
We put on a movie.
Actually two movies, because the first one turned out to be terrible but somehow entertaining in the how did this get made category.
For a few hours my room felt normal again.
Which was impressive, considering an hour earlier we’d watched a version of me standing in my own bedroom mirror.
Just two people eating pizza, throwing commentary at the screen, and pretending the outside world wasn’t full of missing people, secret medical programs, and reality resets.
Moments like that feel different now.
Because I know how fragile they are.
A week from now Clearwater could wipe everything again.
All of this.
The conversations.
The jokes.
The way Ellie laughs when a movie gets ridiculous.
Which is why I’m trying to memorize every second of it.
Monday, April 20, 2026
Town Still on Edge
School today felt like the command post yesterday.
Everyone pretending things were normal.
Nobody actually believing it.
The hallways were quieter than usual, but not in a peaceful way. More like the whole building had turned into one giant whisper chain.
Every locker conversation circled back to the same thing.
Jemma Landry.
Who had seen what.
Who heard what.
Spoiler: nobody actually knew anything.
Teachers tried to keep classes running like a normal Monday. Assignments still got handed out. Bells still rang.
Mrs. Leblanc even attempted a pop quiz in French.
Which felt borderline cruel.
Phones glowing under desks.
Rumors bouncing from row to row like badly aimed dodgeballs.
The weirdest part?
There were no updates.
No announcements.
And somehow that made everyone more nervous.
Because when a whole town is waiting for news, silence starts to feel like the loudest thing in the room.
Halifax Birthday Plan
At lunch I mentioned that tomorrow is Mom’s birthday.
Which I realize makes it sound like I forgot.
I didn’t forget.
I just told them Mom’s never been a big birthday-fuss person.
I learned that the hard way growing up.
Apparently surprise parties count as “fuss.”
And themed cakes.
And banners.
And singing.
So now I aim for the opposite.
Flowers.
Chocolate.
Card.
Low-key success.
Ellie suggested going to the Halifax mall after school for the birthday stuff.
Which immediately made Teddy look up like she’d suggested a trip to another planet.
“People still go to malls?” he asked.
Then he leaned back in his chair.
“Mall shopping sounds like a fate worse than death.”
Ellie ignored him.
“You said you needed flowers, right? And chocolates?”
I admitted my plan was the Celebration shop on Main Street.
Still, Ellie seemed enthusiastic about the mall idea.
And honestly?
I hadn’t been to the Halifax mall since Christmas shopping last year.
So I agreed.
Possibly overkill for a low-key birthday present.
But also a good excuse to spend the evening with Ellie.
Teddy had already made it clear he would not be joining the mall expedition.
And with Candy currently trying to push Ellie into spending more time with us anyway, it felt like a good chance to hang out before Clearwater shows up and resets everything again.
Bus Ride to Halifax
After a quick shower and change of clothes, I met Ellie at the bus stop on Main Street. We skipped the offer of a lift from her dad’s driver.
This was going to be just us and the bus.
The ride takes about forty minutes if traffic behaves.
Today it mostly did.
We passed Main Street, then the long stretch of highway where the forest starts thinning into suburbs.
And then the billboard appeared.
Steele Harvest Group.
One of those giant roadside ads for perfectly arranged fruit and vegetables.
Candy’s family empire looming above the road like a corporate reminder that you can never fully escape her.
Ellie spotted it first.
“Oh look,” she said. “Candy’s watching us.”
Which honestly isn’t that far from the truth.
I glanced up at the giant photo of vegetables and the smiling Steele Harvest Group logo.
“She’s everywhere,” I joked.
“Like a carrot-based supervillain.”
Ellie laughed.
And somehow the rest of the ride felt lighter.
We talked about completely normal things after that.
School.
Music.
Movies.
The fact that Teddy’s laptop shopping list looked like he was building a spy satellite.
Not the kiss, though. That still seemed like one subject neither of us knew how to bring up yet.
For a while it almost felt like we were just two normal people on a normal mall trip.
Which, considering the last few months of reality resets and diary mysteries, was honestly refreshing.
Mall Evening
The Halifax mall looked exactly the same as always.
Bright lights.
Too many stores.
Music playing slightly too loudly somewhere overhead.
I forgot how overwhelming it is compared to Meridia Falls.
We found flowers first.
A bouquet that looked nice but not “birthday spectacle” nice.
Then chocolates.
Then the card.
Which Ellie insisted I pick personally because apparently that part matters.
After the mission was officially complete, we wandered.
Which mostly meant Ellie convincing me to try on clothes I absolutely did not need.
“Just try it,” she said, handing me a jacket.
“I live in a small town,” I reminded her.
“Exactly,” she said. “You’ll be the most fashionable person in the entire town.”
I tried the jacket.
She tried a sweater.
We both agreed neither of them suited us.
But it was still fun watching her try.
Eventually we ended up at McDonald’s, which felt like the traditional end of any mall expedition.
Fries.
Milkshake.
And the kind of conversation that drifts everywhere and nowhere at the same time.
For a while we just sat there talking about random things.
It felt easy.
Comfortable.
The kind of evening that sneaks up on you.
By the time we caught the bus back toward Meridia Falls, the sun was already dipping toward evening.
The flowers rested carefully in my lap the whole ride home.
Mom’s birthday: successfully prepared.
Mission accomplished.
And somehow the day had turned into something a little better than that.
Just a quiet evening with Ellie.
Which I’m starting to think might be my favorite kind of day.
Tuesday, April 21, 2026
Birthday Morning Vibes
I made a decision this morning.
Today was going to start on a good note.
No Clearwater spirals.
No mystery-woman rabbit holes.
Just… normal human birthday behavior.
Because Mom turns forty-one today.
Operation Low-Key Birthday Delivery began the second I got downstairs.
Flowers first.
Then the chocolates.
Then the card I spent way too long picking yesterday—because apparently every greeting card company believes mothers only enjoy gardening puns or deeply emotional poetry.
Mom laughed when she opened the door and saw me standing there holding the whole stack.
“Wow,” she said. “What did you break?”
Classic parental response.
She hugged me though, which means the mission was technically a success.
The flowers went straight into a vase on the kitchen table, and the chocolates were immediately declared emergency reserves.
But even while she was smiling, I could tell something was off.
Her attention kept drifting toward the news playing quietly on the kitchen TV.
Still no real updates on Jemma.
Just reporters repeating the same information.
Same footage.
Same speculation.
Another day of waiting.
I guess that’s the thing about a town when something like this happens.
Even birthdays can’t quite shake the feeling that everyone is holding their breath—
Waiting to hear what comes next.
Dodgeball Survival Mode
Gym class today featured a thrilling sporting event known as:
Everyone Pretending Nothing Is Weird While Everything Is Weird.
The activity was dodgeball.
Which, for the record, is less a sport and more a socially acceptable way for teenagers to settle grudges using foam projectiles.
Candy and Kaelyn immediately took this as a personal challenge.
Within thirty seconds the game turned into a full tactical operation focused on eliminating anyone outside their little orbit.
Which meant the safest survival strategy was simple.
Stay mobile.
Stay quiet.
Do not attract attention.
This strategy worked perfectly for about twelve seconds.
Right up until Candy launched a throw straight at Ellie and I stepped into the line of fire without thinking.
Dodgeball to the face.
Candy immediately rushed over apologizing like we were suddenly best friends.
Which was… new.
A far cry from ketchup chronicles and social media takedowns.
Or maybe she just likes keeping anyone near Ellie close.
But the whole thing felt suspiciously performative—like Candy had decided public friendliness was part of the strategy.
She even waved Ellie over to help me up.
Which I wasn’t arguing with.
Candy forcing a friendship between Ellie and me does have the occasional upside.
If only she knew the whole truth.
After that I mostly hovered near the back of the court with Ellie, occasionally throwing a ball toward the opposite team just to maintain the illusion of participation.
Meanwhile Candy was launching throws like she’d been personally trained by the Olympic dodgeball committee.
And somehow still keeping one eye on Ellie the whole time.
But even with all the chaos bouncing around the gym, something about the whole thing felt… off.
Usually classes get loud and ridiculous when people have pent-up energy.
Today the noise felt different.
More frantic.
Like everyone was trying a little too hard to act normal.
Because outside the gym walls, the whole town was still waiting for news about Jemma.
And somehow even dodgeball couldn’t make people forget that for very long.
That British Guy Again
After school I stopped at the grocery store for dinner supplies.
Tonight’s menu: homemade pizza with Gramps.
Which mostly means I chop things while he supervises like a very enthusiastic culinary director.
Armed with mozzarella, tomatoes, pepperoni, and a bag of mushrooms that looked slightly judgmental, I headed back toward the Meridian through the alley behind the cinema.
That’s when I saw him.
That British guy.
Henry Church.
Standing near Gramps’s workshop like he’d just stepped out of a completely different movie than the one currently playing in my life.
Tall.
Neatly dressed.
The same man who showed up weeks ago discussing “old favors” with Gramps.
Our eyes met for maybe two seconds.
Just long enough for him to give the smallest polite nod—like we were strangers acknowledging each other in passing.
He asked if Walter was around.
I said he must have stepped out but shouldn’t be long.
I stayed polite.
He asked me to tell Gramps he’d stopped by. That he’d know what it was about.
Then he walked back down the alley toward Main Street and disappeared around the corner.
And I stood there in the alley holding a bag of pizza ingredients.
With one very uncomfortable thought echoing in my head.
Suddenly the pizza ingredients felt a lot less important than whatever business Henry Church had with Gramps.
Pizza Therapy Night
Gramps was already in the kitchen when I came in, inspecting the ingredients like a judge on a cooking show.
“Acceptable,” he declared after examining the mozzarella.
High praise.
We started assembling the pizza together—dough first, then sauce, then a very serious debate about mushroom placement that Gramps treated like military strategy.
Somewhere between pepperoni deployment and cheese distribution, I told him about the alley.
Henry Church.
The nod.
Gramps listened, leaning against the counter with his arms folded.
When I finished, he shrugged.
“Probably wants more custom furniture,” he said.
Which honestly sounded reasonable.
Suspicious stranger?
Maybe just a customer.
Weird coincidence?
Probably nothing.
Still, something about the whole encounter had felt a little strange.
But the pizza came out perfect.
Golden crust, melted cheese, enough pepperoni to qualify as structural reinforcement.
And for most of dinner we talked about normal things.
Which, after the last few weeks, felt like a pretty solid victory.
Wednesday, April 22, 2026
Lunch Table Strategy
The cafeteria today came with a side of espionage.
Ellie slid into the seat across from Teddy and me carrying her tray like someone definitely not doing anything suspicious.
Technically she was there on a mission—continuing Candy’s grand plan to get closer to Steve Dillon.
But it gave us the perfect excuse to spend time together.
Which meant Candy thought she was controlling the situation.
She usually does.
Teddy leaned in like he was about to deliver classified intel.
“I saw something this morning,” he said.
On his walk to school down Forest View Drive, he noticed a pair of maintenance tents set up along the edge of the road. Joined together like something bigger than a simple repair job.
And a couple of utility vans parked nearby.
Sounds a lot like what we saw near the Town Hall. Minus the vans.
Ellie and I exchanged a look immediately.
“Might be worth a look,” Ellie said quietly.
And just like that, our lunch table strategy meeting had a brand-new agenda item.
Maintenance tents.
Because the last one we saw felt like a lot of setup for what was supposed to be a small crack in the ground.
Maybe it’s nothing.
But now I kind of want to see what they’re doing under those tents.
Night Recon Mission
Apparently the correct outfit for amateur nighttime investigations is all black.
Which made the three of us look less like stealth operatives and more like the world’s least intimidating teenage ninja squad.
We arranged to meet near the end of Maple Avenue instead of my house.
Didn’t need Mom asking why we were dressed like extras from a low-budget spy movie—especially with the Mayor’s daughter involved.
I just told her I was heading to Teddy’s for a couple of hours.
Ellie texted as I left to say she was already there.
I spotted her down the street waiting under a streetlight, and my pace immediately picked up.
So did my heart rate.
Teddy arrived last, holding his phone like it contained the blueprints to a bank heist.
“Route planning,” he said.
Because of course he had mapped it out.
Apparently he’d spent the afternoon studying camera placements around the maintenance tents. His plan was to cut through a series of side paths and back lanes that avoided the obvious surveillance spots.
Which is both impressive and slightly concerning.
On the one hand—useful.
On the other hand, I’m now very aware Teddy could probably plan a museum robbery if he wanted to.
Which makes me a little nervous about what Teddy’s going to be capable of once we get that hacker laptop running.
We started walking.
Streetlights faded behind us as we moved farther down the road along Forest View Drive, following Teddy’s carefully plotted route.
My brain kept circling the same thought.
Maintenance tents don’t usually appear without a reason.
And if these are anything like the strange setups Ellie and I saw before…
There’s a chance we’re about to walk straight into something we weren’t meant to see.
For one second a darker idea crossed my mind.
What if they found something connected to Jemma out here?
That felt like a pretty big leap.
Still—
It was enough to make the walk feel a little quieter.
Definitely Not Maintenance
Breaking into mysterious tents in the middle of the night was not originally on my Wednesday to-do list.
But here we are.
The tents on Forest View Drive were exactly where Teddy said they’d be—two large ones connected by a narrow fabric corridor, with a pair of portable generators humming beside them.
No security.
No guards.
Just one van parked off to the side.
After several minutes of watching, we realized it was empty.
Which honestly felt even weirder.
We waited a little longer to make sure no one was inside the tents.
Then we moved.
Teddy slipped in first.
Ellie and I followed.
The interior looked almost identical to the setup Ellie and I had seen before—sparkly material lining the inner doors and another elaborate metal fence running through the corridor connecting the two tents.
But this time there was equipment.
A cluster of sensors pointed toward the ground like someone was studying an invisible science experiment.
Except…
This one wasn’t invisible.
Running across the pavement in the first tent was a glowing crack.
Not the tiny kind you get in old sidewalks.
This one burned bright orange, like something underneath the ground was pushing light through a tear in the pavement.
The fracture ran toward the corridor between the tents.
And on the other side—in the second tent—there was another one.
Same color.
Same jagged shape.
Like two halves of the same break.
Both lines ran toward the middle of the corridor.
And right where they met…
The crack rose.
The glowing fracture didn’t stop at the pavement.
It climbed upward into the air between the tents, twisting slightly like gravity had stopped working halfway through.
Bright orange light burned along its edges.
Heat rolled off it in slow waves.
Actual heat.
Ellie grabbed my arm.
“Do you see that?” she whispered.
“Yes,” I whispered back.
The crack wasn’t just glowing.
It was moving.
Not the edges.
Something behind it.
Like shadows shifting on the other side of a door that absolutely should not exist.
And in that moment I realized something very clearly.
We hadn’t just stumbled into a weird maintenance setup.
We had found something the town definitely wasn’t supposed to know about.
Analog Beats Magic
Nobody moved for a few seconds.
Not me.
Not Ellie.
Not Teddy.
We just stood there staring at the glowing crack like three extremely confused lab assistants who had accidentally discovered something way above our pay grade.
The orange glow pulsed faintly, like the thing was breathing.
Or maybe reacting to us being there.
Which was not a comforting thought.
“Okay,” Teddy whispered finally.
“That is not a maintenance issue.”
Understatement of the century.
Ellie leaned closer to me.
“Do you think it’s… safe?”
I looked at the crack again.
Then at the equipment around it.
“Define safe,” I whispered.
Nobody volunteered to touch it.
Which felt like the smartest decision any of us had made all night.
Teddy slowly pulled out his phone.
“Hang on,” he said quietly. “I want to check something.”
He pointed the camera straight at the crack.
Then turned the screen toward us.
Nothing.
Just a black screen.
The glowing tear in reality sitting three feet in front of us simply didn’t exist on his phone.
He tried again—photo, then video.
Same result.
Nothing.
Ellie raised an eyebrow.
“That tracks.”
Teddy lowered the phone slowly.
“Well,” he said.
“That answers that.”
And suddenly I understood exactly what he’d been testing.
“Like the black veins,” I said.
Teddy nodded once.
“Magical interference.”
Which is not a phrase I expected to hear this week.
But it meant one thing.
If we wanted proof…
We needed to go old school.
I pulled the Polaroid camera out of my backpack.
The flash popped.
For a split second the entire tent lit up—and the glowing crack slicing upward into the air looked like the world had glitched.
The photo slid out.
I shook it once out of instinct before remembering you don’t need to do that.
Classic.
We huddled around the slowly developing image.
And there it was.
Clear as day.
A glowing orange tear running through the ground and up into empty space.
Ellie exhaled quietly.
“So,” she said.
“Definitely not road maintenance.”
No.
Definitely not.
Which means one thing is now painfully obvious.
Whatever these tents are hiding…
It’s a lot bigger than a missing girl.
Thursday, April 23, 2026
Media Studies Mode
Today’s main objective at school:
Convince everyone we are completely normal students working on a completely normal Media Studies project.
Not students who broke into mysterious tents last night and photographed a glowing tear in reality.
So…
Easy.
Now that we finally had our sunset footage, the next stage of the project officially began: editing.
The plan is to produce three versions of the same scene.
A standard 2D edit.
A full 360-degree version.
And also a VR presentation.
Which sounded exciting when the teacher explained it.
Less exciting now that I’m remembering how easily VR headsets can make people motion sick.
We gathered around the editing station while Noah started the first rendering pass.
The footage actually looked incredible.
The sky over Shadow Ridge turns this ridiculous mix of orange and purple right before the sun drops behind the trees—one of those sunsets that doesn’t look real even when you’re standing in it.
In VR it’s probably going to feel like you’re actually standing on the ridge.
Which is cool.
Unless the headset makes you throw up.
But while Noah and Olivia kept working through the editing timeline, Ellie and I kept drifting back to the same topic in side conversations.
The glowing crack.
Existential mysteries on one side.
Homework deadlines on the other.
Curiosity: 1. Common sense: still losing.
Too Normal to Be Normal
Lunch turned into one of those strategy meetings that technically just looks like three teenagers eating sandwiches.
But really…
it’s detective work with cafeteria food.
Teddy came armed with research.
Actual research.
“I looked up the company name on the maintenance van,” he said, lowering his voice like he was sharing classified intel. “Trion Networks.”
Which immediately sounded like one of those corporate names created by throwing random tech words into a blender.
But here’s the strange part.
According to Teddy, everything about them looks completely ordinary.
Normal website.
Normal business registration.
Normal office addresses.
They even have one of those painfully boring mission statements about infrastructure maintenance and network deployment.
Ellie frowned.
“So… they’re a real company?”
Teddy nodded and poked at his fries thoughtfully.
“If we had the hacking laptop built already,” he said, “I could start digging deeper. Internal networks, archived records, dark web mirrors—the stuff that doesn’t show up on regular searches.”
Unfortunately…
We don’t have the laptop yet.
So for now we’re stuck running the world’s slowest investigation.
Meanwhile somewhere in town there’s a glowing crack in reality sitting inside a tent run by a company that looks perfectly legitimate.
Which somehow makes the whole thing feel off.
Cascades Tradition
Tonight was pie night.
Which, in our case, basically means the last calm evening before Ellie and I go in for our Clearwater observation.
Apparently memory wipes pair well with pecan pie.
We met at Cascades just after dinner.
Same upstairs booth.
Same view of the street.
Same café lighting that makes every dessert look like it belongs in a commercial.
Ellie slid into the seat beside me.
Teddy immediately started on his pecan pie like he hadn’t eaten for days.
Priorities.
Cascades was busier than usual, though.
Not in a cheerful way.
More in a low, restless kind of way.
A few of the Sherlocks were still lingering around town. Two of them had laptops open on their tables, whispering theories like they were filming an episode of True Crime: Meridia Falls.
Except the mood had definitely shifted.
Last week it was curiosity.
People asking questions.
Trying to help.
Now it felt heavier.
Quieter.
Like the whole town had started realizing this might not have a simple ending.
Teddy noticed it too.
“Fewer tourists,” he muttered.
Ellie nodded slightly.
“More locals.”
Which basically means everyone is waiting.
Waiting for the search to find something.
Or someone.
Meanwhile we were sitting there with three hot chocolates and three slices of pie between us—and a completely different mystery we couldn’t talk about out loud.
Because explaining glowing cracks in reality in a crowded café would probably get us escorted out by the staff.
Or the police.
Possibly both.
So instead we stuck to the tradition.
Pie.
Friends.
One quiet evening before Clearwater tries to rearrange our lives again.
The Reset Checklist
After Cascades we walked to the Meridian—our unofficial pre-Clearwater routine.
Not the fun kind.
More the prepare-for-reality-to-maybe-collapse kind.
The hidden compartment in the window seat is where everything goes—the things that need to survive the next reset.
It’s weird how normal this process feels now.
A few months ago, preparing for my own memories to be wiped would have sounded like science fiction.
Now it’s basically a checklist.
Ellie and Teddy updated their letters and video messages.
I handled the storage side.
Letters ready—one on my desk, one ready to be mailed.
USB flash drive and laptop shopping list wrapped in notebook paper for extra just-in-case protection.
Then I took everything down from Bobby to keep safe for after Clearwater.
Everything tucked into the window seat compartment where it should survive the shift.
Which is honestly terrifying.
Because that’s how quickly we’ve gotten used to it.
Last Night Before Clearwater
After Teddy left, the Meridian got quiet again.
The kind of quiet that shows up when the town finally starts winding down.
Ellie and I stayed for a while.
Neither of us seemed in a hurry to leave.
The window seat still had the panel off—showing all the little pieces we’re hoping survive Clearwater.
Just the Polaroid camera left to add tomorrow.
Reset insurance.
Romantic, right?
Ellie sat beside me, leaning back against the wall.
For a minute we just listened to the old building creak the way it always does at night.
Then she said it.
“So… about last time.”
Which immediately made my brain short-circuit a little.
Because technically the last time we had this conversation…
She didn’t remember it afterward.
But I do.
I always do.
“The kiss,” she added quietly.
Right.
That.
The moment before the last reset where everything got very real very fast.
I stared at the floor for a second, trying to figure out how to answer that without sounding like a complete disaster.
“It happened,” I said finally.
Which might be the least poetic description of a first kiss in human history.
Ellie laughed softly.
“Good to know.”
The humor faded pretty quickly though.
Because tomorrow could erase it again.
Erase everything.
The friendship we rebuilt.
The trust.
The version of us that only exists in this cycle.
She watched me for a long moment.
“You know,” she said, “statistically speaking, this is a terrible time to complicate things.”
Accurate.
Timing: catastrophic.
Probability of memory wipe: high.
Emotional risk level: extremely questionable.
And yet.
She leaned closer.
“So,” Ellie said, “maybe we don’t let statistics decide everything.”
Which is how we ended up kissing again.
This one slower.
Less panicked.
Not for the camera.
For us.
Like we were both trying to memorize it.
Just in case reality decides we’re not supposed to remember it.
And if Clearwater wipes everything again…
At least somewhere it happened twice.
And I’ll remember.
Friday, April 24, 2026
Clearwater Countdown
Today felt weird the moment I walked into school.
Not bad weird.
Just… surreal.
Like everyone was moving through a completely normal Friday while my brain kept flashing the same reminder over and over:
Clearwater tonight.
Impending reality reset.
No pressure.
Clearwater observations always happen on the last Sunday of the month, which makes this one feel early. We’re still almost a week away from the actual end of April.
So part of me feels slightly cheated.
On the other hand, it also means the next visit won’t happen for five weeks.
Which is the closest thing to a silver lining this situation offers.
The hallways were full of the usual noise—lockers slamming, people yelling, someone already blasting music from their phone like it’s a public service.
But underneath all of that was the other thing everyone kept talking about.
Jemma Landry.
Every conversation eventually circled back to it.
Someone heard they were doing a drone search near Shadowmere Lake.
Someone else said the police had expanded the grid farther into Hellgate Forest.
Nobody actually knew anything new.
Which somehow made the rumors worse.
Uncertainty is apparently rocket fuel for speculation.
And then there was Candy.
Because of course there was.
While the entire town is holding its breath waiting for news about a missing girl, Candy has somehow managed to stay fully focused on the most important crisis in Meridia Falls.
Her birthday party tomorrow.
I overheard her at her locker giving Kaelyn a detailed breakdown of decorations, music, and something called a “signature drink table.”
Which honestly sounds exhausting, although part of me almost admires the commitment.
Ellie, on the other hand, seemed thrilled about one very specific side effect of this weekend.
Clearwater gives her the perfect excuse to skip Candy’s party.
Silver linings come in strange forms.
Meanwhile I spent most of the day glancing at the clock.
Every class.
Every hallway.
Every passing minute.
Counting down to the moment Clearwater might decide to rewrite my life again.
Final Safeguards
After school I made one last stop before heading home.
The post office.
Teddy walked with me from school, officially because he wanted to make absolutely sure the backup letter actually went through.
But I’m pretty sure the real reason was that he was making the most of the time we had left before the reset.
I mailed the backup letter.
Handing it over the counter felt weirdly dramatic.
Like sending a message into a future I might not remember.
Teddy watched the whole process like a quality control inspector.
Then he nodded once like the mission had been successfully completed.
Which, honestly, felt reassuring.
Mom agreed to take Ellie again—
Or maybe I should say she eagerly offered.
Mom loves the chance to rub shoulders with the town’s elite on a more personal level.
On the way to the South Bay Peninsula we stopped at the Meridian so I could drop off my school stuff for Monday.
And so I could run the final checks.
Window seat compartment—sealed.
Old diaries.
Diary index.
Altered memory notebook.
Polaroids.
All of it tucked behind the AC vent.
Also behind it were the letters Ellie and Teddy added to last night.
Letters to themselves.
Insurance against a version of reality that might not remember any of this.
I just had this last entry to write, seal it with the eye stamp, and hide my current diary with the rest.
I stood there for a minute listening to the Meridian settle around me.
Old pipes ticking.
Floorboards shifting.
The kind of quiet that only shows up when the whole town is winding down.
Then the woman in the mirror slipped back into my thoughts.
Because if that really was me someday…
Then she already knows how the Clearwater cycle ends.
Which made me think about Ellie.
About last night.
About the second kiss.
Which raises a slightly terrifying question.
How many times can something like that survive being erased?
How many resets before even something real like that stops finding its way back?
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DB
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