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, June 6, 2026
First Version Warnings
It was 6:45am, chilly, and the park was almost empty, because apparently normal people don’t meet mysterious underground journalists at sunrise.
Very healthy life choices happening here.
The sky over the trees had gone soft pink and gold, like Meridia Falls was trying very hard to look innocent.
Rude, honestly.
Brandon the crow was on the bandstand roof, watching like he had also been invited to the secret sunrise meeting. He cawed once, which I chose to interpret as moral support and not bird-based judgment.
Sapphire Bliss was already there, sitting on a bench near the bandstand in a dark coat, dark hair loose around her face, looking like she had read the room, the exits, and possibly my browser history before I arrived.
I was not alone.
Obviously.
Ellie was behind me, far enough away to be “not obvious” while pretending to be extremely interested in a tree.
Not our finest stealth work.
After the world’s briefest awkward introduction standoff, Sapphire looked past my shoulder and said, “Your friend can come over.”
I turned.
Ellie froze.
Classic Ellie. Caught spying by an actual professional and still somehow looking polite about it.
“She’s with me,” I said.
“I know,” Sapphire said. “Ellie Horton. The mayor’s daughter.”
Knowing Ellie’s name before she reached the bench did not make Sapphire feel informed—it made her feel dangerous.
That was when I decided I did not like how calm she was.
Sapphire did not waste time. No dramatic warning speech. No trench-coat nonsense. She opened her bag, took out a small wooden box carved with tiny curling patterns, and set it on the bench between us.
“You asked about Patrick Collins,” she said. “That was your first mistake.”
My stomach did the now-familiar mystery drop.
“Love starting with encouragement.”
Sapphire’s mouth almost smiled.
Almost.
“Patrick Collins is watched. Cassie Collins triggers faster attention. Logan Collins made the story visible.”
“We were careful, we found you through the dark web,” I said.
Sapphire’s eyes sharpened slightly.
“Then the radius isn’t as clean as someone wants it to be.”
“That sounds encouraging.”
“It isn’t. It means echoes survive. It also means someone may notice when they’re touched.”
Ellie sat beside me, close enough that our sleeves brushed.
Sapphire told us Logan was dubbed the White Door Kid after he said he saw two men drag his sister through a strange white door in a Vancouver park. The official version turned it into trauma. A child inventing something impossible because the real thing was supposedly too awful.
Then Sapphire said the phrase that made the whole morning feel colder.
“Sometimes the impossible thing is the real thing.”
Logan had been treated at a facility called Serenity Grove under the same ESD label. Same pattern as Clearwater. Medical language. Observation weekends. Records that looked clean until you checked them from far enough away.
She said it like she already knew about us.
Not directly.
Worse.
Like she had already placed us on the same map.
I asked what that meant.
Sapphire tapped the wooden box.
“Do you believe in magic?” she asked.
She looked between us like she already knew the answer.
Which, honestly, was worse.
“Meridia Falls has a suppression radius,” she said. “My term, not theirs. The town is the center, but it bleeds outward. Most of Nova Scotia is unreliable if you’re looking for the Collins family. Records thin, corrupt, redirect, or disappear. People misremember. Physical evidence degrades if it isn’t protected.”
“Protected how?” Ellie asked.
Sapphire opened the box.
Inside was a folded newspaper page. At the top, I saw the masthead.
The Vancouver Luminar.
Below it, half a headline.
COLLINS FAMILY—
Then the letters blurred.
Not like my eyes were watering.
Like the page objected to being read.
Sapphire removed the clipping.
For one second, the headline sharpened.
COLLINS FAMILY QUESTIONED AFTER PARK DISAPPEARANCE
Then the paper browned at the edges.
Ellie made a tiny sound beside me.
The clipping curled. Cracked. Flaked.
By the time Sapphire laid it on the bench, half the article had turned to gray dust.
No wind.
No fire.
Just gone.
I thought of Holly’s face in the Polaroid.
Then Jemma.
Then the Collins family.
Apparently dangerous enough to make paper give up existing.
Different names. Same horrible question.
How much can the world remove before everyone agrees it was never there?
My throat felt tight.
“So the town eats evidence now,” I said, because apparently my mouth still works when my brain is busy filing a complaint with reality.
Except that was the problem.
I had been blaming Clearwater for the missing records, the altered memories, the way truth kept slipping sideways.
Sapphire wasn’t talking about Clearwater.
She was talking about the town.
Maybe more than the town.
Sapphire folded the remains carefully back into the box.
“The town wants to forget,” she said. “Something helps it.”
That landed.
Hard.
Before she left, Sapphire handed me a small card. Plain white. No logo—just a QR code on one side. On the other side, a few lines had been written in neat black ink.
THE FIRST VERSION Do not search from inside the radius. If a page changes, print before you refresh. Do not use a personal device.
The First Version.
As blog names went, it was extremely Sapphire.
Not flashy. Not spooky—just quietly accusing the universe of editing its own paperwork.
“That will take you to my blog,” she said. “If the route hasn’t been compromised by the time you scan it.”
“Comforting.”
“It moves. Servers, mirrors, addresses. It has to.”
Then Sapphire looked at both of us and said, “The truth is not gone. It is displaced.”
She glanced toward town like it might be listening.
Which, honestly?
At this point, it probably was.
Ellie and I stayed on the bench after she left, staring at the dust caught in the grain of the wood.
The sunrise kept getting prettier.
Meridia Falls kept looking innocent.
And I kept thinking about the article.
Not deleted.
Not lost.
Destroyed because it was too close to home.
So yeah.
First version saved.
Second version currently disintegrating.
Halifax Sidekick Mode
We called Teddy from the park because apparently after watching newspaper evidence turn into antique dust, the next logical step is group panic.
Only we had one problem.
Teddy was in Halifax.
Again.
Not a complaint—his dad was there. The whole Chen Print situation was hanging over him like a very expensive storm cloud.
But still.
Having Teddy trapped in another city while Sapphire Bliss casually informed us that certain searches were basically a giant glowing please notice me button?
Not ideal.
He answered on the third ring, sounding tired.
Teddy tired.
Which means trying to sound normal while his brain is running emergency systems in the background.
“Did we wake you?” I asked.
“People in the next room were being aggressively awake all night,” he said. “So technically, no.”
Classic Halifax hotel glamour.
I gave him the short version.
Sapphire. Park. Wooden box. Vancouver Luminar clipping. White Door Kid. Serenity Grove. Suppression radius. Article turning into dust on a bench like reality had decided journalism was optional.
There was silence for a second.
Then Teddy said, “Please tell me you didn’t search anything yet.”
Classic Teddy.
First response: concern.
Second response: system risk.
“We were standing in a park,” I said. “I did not whip out the Truthweaver laptop beside the ducks.”
“Good.”
Ellie, sitting next to me with her knees tucked up on the bench, mouthed, ducks?
I told him about Sapphire’s card. The QR code. The First Version. The warning not to search from inside the radius or use a personal device.
“That’s not just caution,” he said. “That’s procedure.”
Very helpful.
Very terrifying.
Truthweaver was at the Meridian. The USB was there too. Serenity Grove had a name now. Logan had a treatment place. The obvious move was to go straight there and start searching.
Which is exactly why we didn’t.
Growth.
Hate that.
“We should wait for you,” I said.
Teddy went quiet again, softer this time.
“You don’t have to wait because of me.”
“Yes, we do,” Ellie said, leaning closer to the phone. “Because this is your kind of dangerous.”
That landed.
Even Teddy did not have a comeback ready.
He finally said, “No phones. No personal devices. Don’t open Truthweaver unless you’re both sure you can stop if something acts wrong.”
“Wow,” I said. “Fun Saturday plan canceled by tech dad.”
“I accept the title.”
Of course he did.
So we left Serenity Grove alone.
Not forgotten.
Not dropped.
Just parked carefully somewhere it couldn’t explode in our faces while Teddy was stuck in Halifax trying to hold his actual life together.
When we got back to the Meridian, I added Serenity Grove and White Door Kid to Bobby.
Just the names.
No searches. No links. No typing the Collins family into anything connected to us.
There is a difference between recording a monster and waving at it.
Ellie rested her shoulder against mine.
“Waiting was the right call,” she said.
I nodded.
It did not feel like doing nothing.
It felt like not handing the monster our address.
Which is apparently what passes for maturity now.
Borrowed Normal Weather
By lunchtime, the weather had apparently decided to rebrand.
The morning had been cold fingers, pink sunrise, and undercover journalist energy. Then the sun came out properly, the air warmed up, and Meridia Falls started acting like it had not just tried to eat a newspaper article in public.
Very cute.
Very suspicious.
Ellie and I made the executive decision not to spend the whole day poking the mystery with a stick. Teddy was in Halifax. Sapphire had handed us a list of ways to get ourselves flagged by invisible record goblins. Truthweaver was waiting inside the window seat like a forbidden glowing button.
So we had a picnic.
In the park.
Actual food. Actual grass. Actual pretending.
We found a spot where the lake showed through the trees, and Ellie sat cross-legged on the blanket while I unpacked sandwiches, chips, grapes, and two cans of lemonade Gramps had added: “for balance.”
Balance, apparently, means sugar and fizz.
I did not argue.
For a while, we did pretty well. Movie plans—stolen popcorn theories. Teddy absolutely judging our picnic-packing strategy from afar.
Borrowed normal.
Still counts.
After that, we went back to the Meridian and helped Gramps with renovation work in the restaurant space. Nothing glamorous. Wiping shelves. Moving boxes. Sorting menus he was still pretending were “rough ideas” even though they were clearly in version twelve.
The reopening is next month, which feels impossible. The Meridian used to be my safe place. Now it is becoming something public. Polished. Reviewable.
Rude evolution.
I suggested Charisma Cavanagh again for the opening. Not joking this time. Yes, her past is complicated, and Rich Cavanagh remains a walking personality rash, but an actual Oscar nominee turning up to the Meridian would be huge.
Gramps gave me a thoughtful look.
Which is Gramps for I am not saying no—but I am also not letting you see the whole chessboard.
Then I asked what Mom had wanted with him yesterday.
The thoughtful look became careful.
Different flavor.
“She had a few things on her mind,” he said.
“That is very specific. Very informative. Journalism may call.”
He smiled, but not all the way.
“Nothing for you to worry about, Penny.”
Obviously, that made me worry immediately.
Then he added, softer, “There might be a nice surprise coming soon.”
I narrowed my eyes.
“Nice surprise as in cake, or nice surprise as in everyone knows something except me?”
“Can’t it be both?”
Classic Gramps.
Warm. Annoying. Possibly hiding three secrets and a casserole.
Mom had been watching me and Ellie more closely lately too, which made Gramps’s nothing to worry about feel even less convincing.
Black-and-White Breathing Room
By the time evening arrived, my brain had officially run out of useful shapes.
Sapphire’s warning was still sitting in it.
Teddy’s voice was still sitting in it.
The name Serenity Grove was definitely sitting in it, probably wearing a tiny evil name tag.
So obviously, Ellie and I made popcorn.
Actual popcorn. In a bowl. With too much butter because Gramps believes butter is a food group—and after this morning, I was not emotionally equipped to disagree.
The Meridian’s event cinema still smells faintly like paint, old carpet, and possibility. Gramps has been slowly turning it from old movie-theater sadness into vintage cinema restaurant dream, which sounds fake until you see him fussing over curtain folds like they are national security.
Tonight, it was just ours.
We picked It Happened One Night because I wanted something black-and-white, romantic, and old enough that no one in it was likely to say “suppression radius” or “don’t search the cursed family from inside the haunted town.”
Very specific genre requirement.
Ellie tucked herself under one side of the blanket. The screen flickered to life, all silver light and crackly charm, and for a while there were buses, banter, stubborn people pretending not to like each other, and no one floating, disappearing, glowing, glitching, or turning into dust.
Luxury.
Ellie laughed first.
Not a big laugh. Just a quiet one.
I looked at her instead of the screen for maybe half a second too long.
She noticed.
Of course she noticed.
“What?” she whispered.
“Nothing.”
“That was not a nothing look.”
“It was a classic-film-appreciation look.”
“At me?”
“You’re very historically cinematic.”
She hid her face in the blanket, but I saw the smile anyway.
Tiny victory dance.
Internal only.
We did not talk about Sapphire Bliss. Or Clearwater. Or the marks. Or whether the town was eating evidence for breakfast.
Ellie’s shoulder pressed against mine.
I stayed there.
Beside her.
In the dark.
Watching two stubborn people find their way toward each other in black-and-white, while everything outside the room stayed complicated and sharp and waiting.
Borrowed normal.
Still counts.
Sunday, June 7, 2026
Church-Bell Holding Pattern
Sunday tried very hard to be normal.
Which was bold of it.
Ellie went to church, and I walked with her most of the way because that has somehow become a thing we do now. Not official. Not labeled—just one of those routines that sneaks into your life and acts like it always belonged there.
Very rude.
Very nice.
The morning was warmer than yesterday’s Sapphire-meeting chill, but there was still a breeze coming off the water. Ellie wore a pale summer dress under her light cardigan, and her hair looked even redder in the sun.
Which was rude in a completely different way.
I did not say anything.
I just noticed.
Because apparently I am now the kind of person who notices sleeve behavior, sunlight behavior, and Ellie behavior in general.
Growth? Possibly.
Concerning? Also yes.
I waited in the park while she was inside, sitting on the same bench I usually sit on and trying very hard not to think about newspaper pages turning into dust. The chapel bell rang once, and for half a second, I imagined the sound pushing across town like a circle on water.
Ellie came out looking softer around the edges, which church sometimes does to her. Not fixed. Not magically okay. Just steadier. Like she had put one more tiny weight on the side of herself that wants to stay.
And yes, maybe I fell a little more in love with her right there, which felt rude because I was already busy.
Apparently nobody told my heart.
We went to Cascades after, because if Meridia Falls is going to be weird and possibly record-eating, it can at least provide decent lunch.
We got our usual booth. Ellie stole two of my fries. I pretended to be offended. She pretended not to enjoy it.
For almost an hour, we talked about nothing urgent. Just food, Gramps’s cinema plans, and whether the popcorn last night had been too buttery. Ellie claimed there is no such thing as too buttery, which means she has been successfully corrupted by Gramps.
Honestly, proud of her.
Then her phone buzzed.
I knew before she looked.
Not because I am psychic—I would like to formally not be psychic. But her whole body did that tiny shift. Shoulders first. Then mouth. Then the hand closing around the phone like she could keep the message from existing if she held it tightly enough.
Candy.
Urgent girls’ meeting.
Apparently.
Ellie stared at the screen for a few seconds too long.
“You don’t have to go,” I said, which was brave and stupid and probably not true.
She looked at me then.
Not dramatic. Not tearful. Just tired in a way that made my chest ache.
“I kind of do.”
And there it was.
The thing about borrowed normal is that somebody can always call it back.
So I walked her out of Cascades, and we stood on the sidewalk while Sunday kept being sunny and harmless around us.
Ellie squeezed my hand once when no one was really looking.
Then she let go.
Candy had pulled the string.
And Ellie, for now, still had to move.
Three Falls Problem
Ellie came back to the Meridian just before dinner, which was good because my brain had already started inventing worst-case versions of Candy’s “urgent girls’ meeting.”
There were many.
Most involved matching outfits, emotional blackmail, and at least one group chat with a name like Summer Queens.
I hate that I can imagine Candy’s branding.
Ellie looked tired when she came in. Not destroyed. Just socially sanded down. Like she had spent the afternoon smiling at the correct times while someone else decided what everyone should care about.
I did not pounce.
Personal growth.
Also Gramps was in the kitchen making pasta, and interrogations are harder when someone is asking whether you want garlic bread.
For the record, the answer is always yes.
After dinner, Ellie and I ended up in my room with the window cracked open because the evening had stayed weirdly warm. She sat on the edge of the bed, picking at a loose thread on her sleeve.
“So,” I said, very casual and not at all like I had been waiting all afternoon. “How was the emergency summit of terrifying girl politics?”
That got a small smile.
“Candy’s planning a summer party.”
I blinked.
“That was the emergency?”
“Apparently.”
Of course it was.
Candy Steele could make a party sound like a hostile takeover.
Ellie said Candy had already snagged herself a date for the senior prom too.
Peak Candy.
Whoever he was, I hoped he had emotional insurance.
Apparently, that meant she could now redirect her full strategic horror toward summer.
The party would be at Three Falls after school finishes next month. The summer place. The waterfall place. The one everyone talks about every year like it is legally required for fun people to go there and be photographed looking effortless.
I have avoided it very successfully.
Gold star for me.
“It’s actually nice,” Ellie said, probably because my face had done something judgmental. “When it’s quieter. The pools are pretty. There are rocks you can sit on. Trails too.”
“Trails near waterfall pools full of popular people,” I said. “Tempting.”
“She’ll be gone after,” Ellie added. “Candy. New Zealand ski vacation.”
“Of course Candy found winter on purpose.”
Ellie laughed, but it faded quickly.
The party was not just a party. I could tell by the way she said it. Candy was already arranging people like props. Who would be invited. Who should arrive together. Who should stand close enough to be noticed. Who should be seen with whom.
And Ellie was still close enough to hear the planning.
Still close enough to be useful.
Still close enough to be pulled.
“Maybe we could go another time,” Ellie said. “Not the party. Just… us. When it’s quiet.”
That made the idea shift a little.
Not Candy’s version. Not the social trap version.
Just water, rocks, trees, Ellie beside me, and maybe no one trying to ruin anyone’s life in the background.
Suspicious hope.
“Maybe,” I said.
Ellie looked down at her sleeve again, but she was smiling.
Outside, the town was warm and soft and pretending summer was simple.
School was almost over.
Candy was already planning the next battlefield.
And apparently it had waterfalls.
Monday, June 8, 2026
Shop-Sale Reality
Teddy texted before homeroom.
Which is usually good.
Teddy regular-not-diary-mystery texts are normally things like forgot my Science notes, remind me I’m an idiot or Squirt says your skateboard is cooler than you, sorry—democracy has spoken.
This one was not that.
Teddy: Staying in Halifax until Tuesday. Dad’s specialist wants another appointment tomorrow. Back Wednesday, probably. Also someone’s coming to look around the shop.
I read it twice.
Then a third time, because apparently my brain thought the words might improve with repetition.
They did not.
Someone was coming to look around Chen Print.
Not “maybe one day if things get worse” look around. An actual person. Actual appointment. Actual shop that might become someone else’s shop.
My stomach did the slow-drop thing.
The first time Teddy told me they might have to sell, it had sounded awful but distant. Like a storm warning when the sky outside is clear.
Now the clouds had names.
Buyer.
Viewing.
Wednesday.
Very official.
Very terrible.
I typed three different replies and deleted all of them.
That sucks felt too small.
Are you okay? felt insulting because obviously he was not okay.
Please don’t move back across the ocean and ruin my life felt slightly me-focused.
Barely.
So I wrote:
Me: Do you want distraction, practical support, or me threatening capitalism?
Teddy replied after a minute.
Teddy: Can I choose all three? Me: Obviously. Premium friendship package. Teddy: Thanks. Tell Ellie I said hi. And don’t do anything stupid with Truthweaver until I’m back.
Classic.
Family crisis, possible business collapse, father in hospital, still finding time to supervise my bad decisions remotely.
I told Ellie at lunch. She went quiet in that careful way she does when something hurts and she does not want to grab the pain too hard.
“Squirt would hate leaving,” she said.
That was the thing that got me.
Not the shop.
Not even Teddy, though obviously Teddy.
Squirt running around Chen Print like it belonged to her because, in every way that matters, it does. The counter, the paper stacks, the upstairs apartment, the smell of ink, Teddy pretending to be annoyed when she stole his chair.
May Chen flying to China to ask her father for help.
Jin Chen in Halifax Memorial, still fighting his own body.
Teddy trying to keep every plate spinning while pretending none of them were cracking.
Chen Print did not feel like a place anymore.
It felt like a clock.
And somebody had started the countdown.
Technical Collision Week
Monday decided subtlety was overrated.
First, Math happened, which was rude but survivable. Then Media Studies happened, where Mr. Lefevre reminded us that our 2D versions needed to be “clean, accessible, and presentation-ready.”
He also reminded us that the 360-degree presentations were starting Thursday—because apparently deadlines do not pause for underground journalists and glowing body marks.
Presentation-ready.
Such harmless words.
So harmless I immediately distrusted them.
Our 360-degree sunset project was basically done, thanks mostly to Noah and Olivia being actual responsible humans while Ellie and I were busy with tiny side quests like memory damage, body marks, and underground journalists.
The 2D version still needed polishing because apparently people cannot just climb inside a headset and vibe with the horizon.
Very limiting technology.
By Drama, the school-production machine had shifted into a new phase. Miss Rivers called it “technical integration,” which sounds professional—until you realize it mostly means everything starts breaking at the same time.
Props. Set pieces. Sound cues. Projection tests.
Actors asking where things are while standing directly beside them.
My natural habitat, apparently.
I spent half the class relabeling prop boxes because someone had put the ceremonial branch in the basket labeled Act Two Table Items, which is exactly how civilization collapses.
Ellie got pulled toward the front to fix a painted forest panel that looked fine in normal light but went aggressively swampy when the projector hit it.
She had green paint on her thumb and the focused little frown she gets when something ugly has personally offended her.
Marilyn was rehearsing near the stage with that polished, pageant-ready concentration that makes adults say things like such poise and makes Candy’s jaw tighten by three invisible degrees.
Candy was not in Drama.
Important detail.
But Candy did not need to be in the room to feel present. Her orbit reached through people. Glances. Phones. Whispered updates near the doors. Sally slipping out and coming back with a face that said she had delivered or received something.
Nothing obvious.
Which made it worse.
Marilyn hit her cue perfectly. Miss Rivers praised her. A few people clapped because apparently we clap now.
Candy was not there to see it.
Somehow, I was still sure she would know.
Tuesday, June 9, 2026
Swing-Set Second Opinion
After school, Ellie and I ended up at the park.
Not the dramatic part. Not by the bandstand where mysterious journalists casually prove reality has a shredder setting—just the playground, because apparently when your life becomes a medical mystery with glowing triangle marks, you sit on swings like emotionally confused toddlers.
Honestly?
Fair.
We had already spent lunch wondering if we could sneak the Polaroid into Clearwater next time, because nothing says healthy coping mechanism like planning suspicious ankle photography.
The answer was maybe.
Also probably terrible.
So the idea went into the same category as most of our plans now.
Not canceled.
Not safe.
Waiting.
The playground was mostly empty. A little kid was being aggressively coached down a slide by a very tired parent, and somewhere behind us a dog kept barking at absolutely nothing.
Possibly it had also seen my medical file.
Ellie sat on the swing beside mine, twisting slightly back and forth without really moving. Her shoes dragged lines through the dirt.
I leaned over and kissed her cheek quickly. Playful. Small. The kind of thing that could pass for nothing if anyone looked over.
Ellie’s mouth twitched like she was trying not to smile.
Then her eyes stayed on the ground.
“Do you ever wonder,” she said, “if we actually have it?”
I looked at her.
She did not look back.
“ESD,” she said quietly.
The word sat between us, too small for how much it has controlled my life.
I pushed one foot against the ground and let the swing rock back.
“I didn’t used to,” I said.
That was the honest answer.
Before the diaries, ESD was just one of the facts of being me. Annoying. Exhausting. Sometimes scary. But real. Like Mom being impossible or Teddy carrying emergency snacks.
Now there were pinpricks that did not feel like normal bloodwork. Triangle marks that glowed under black light. Matching marks on Ellie. Memory gaps. A secret message through the RGN app telling us to check our bodies after Clearwater.
Still no follow-up message after that, by the way.
Very helpful.
Very mysterious.
Zero stars.
“What if it’s not fake,” Ellie said, finally looking at me, “but not the whole thing?”
That landed harder than if she had said it was all a lie.
Because that was worse, somehow.
Not fake.
Not real.
Something real being used to hide something else.
A truth wearing a lab coat.
“I hate that that makes sense,” I said.
Ellie’s fingers tightened around the swing chain. “Could we ask another doctor?”
“My mom would find out,” I said.
“My dad would too,” Ellie said.
We both went quiet.
There it was. The practical wall.
We are sixteen, marked, suspicious, and very much not in charge of our own medical records.
Classic.
Walking into a random clinic with secret glowing symbols and no parent permission felt… unlikely.
Very professional.
Absolutely no questions at all.
“We’d need records,” I said. “Or bloodwork. Or a way to ask without triggering parent alerts.”
“Or someone who already knows how weird this is.”
I thought of Sapphire Bliss.
Then immediately thought of Teddy telling us not to search from inside the radius.
Helpful universe.
Love the locked doors.
Ellie leaned her forehead against the chain.
“I hate that they get to know more about our bodies than we do.”
My throat tightened.
Because yes.
That was it.
Our bodies had evidence on them.
In them.
And somehow we were the last people allowed to read it.
I reached sideways and hooked two fingers around hers, low between the swings where no one would notice unless they were really looking.
“We don’t have to solve it today,” I said.
“I know.”
“We just have to not stop asking.”
Ellie nodded.
The dog barked again at nothing.
Or maybe not nothing.
At this point, I respect its instincts.
Wednesday, June 10, 2026
Back, Mostly
Drama was second period today, which meant Science had barely finished pretending the universe had rules before Spellbound Harmony proved school productions do not.
Props had migrated. Projection tests made the painted forest look damp and unwell. Someone had put the crystal lantern in the basket marked Forest Scene Cloths, which is exactly how civilization collapses.
My job was props. Ellie got pulled toward the stage because one of the backdrops had personally offended her in green.
Marilyn was onstage for most of it.
Annoying thing: she is good.
Not just school-good. Actually good. She knew where to stand, hit her cues, adjusted when the projection lagged, and helped one of the newer cast members find their place without making it weird.
Miss Rivers noticed.
Everyone noticed.
And the yearbooks were due in the last week of school, which meant Marilyn’s perfect photo was about to become portable proof that everyone had noticed her.
By lunch, I was already tired of worrying about things that had not technically happened yet.
Then I saw Teddy walking toward our table, and the day got worse in a quieter way.
He was back at school.
Mostly.
His body was there. Hoodie. Backpack. Hair sticking up at the back like he had either slept badly or lost a fight with a pillow.
Probably both.
The rest of him was still partly in Halifax.
I saw it before he sat down. The smile was delayed, like his face had to check with the rest of him before committing.
Not ideal.
He dropped opposite me and Ellie with a dramatic sigh that was about twenty percent performance and eighty percent actual exhaustion.
“Good news,” he said. “I remain alive.”
“Low bar,” I said.
“Still cleared it.”
“Also,” he said, with the bleakness of a person announcing a second tragedy, “they canceled the Doctor Who Christmas special.”
Ellie made a wounded noise. “I know.”
“Rude,” I said, because apparently even television had decided waiting was a personality trait now.
Ellie slid Teddy a bag of chips without making a big deal out of it. He looked at them for a second, then at her.
“Thanks.”
Small word.
Big tired.
I wanted to tell him everything again. Sapphire’s card. The Luminar clipping turning to dust. White Door Kid. Serenity Grove. The fact that Ellie and I had sat on swings yesterday questioning whether our entire medical history was wearing a fake mustache.
Very casual update package.
Then his phone buzzed.
“The shop viewing?” I asked.
He nodded. “After school. Mum says the person sounds serious.”
The word serious landed badly.
Serious meant adults walking through Chen Print and pretending it was just space and equipment, not the place where Teddy has spent half his life stacking paper, fixing printers, and pretending Squirt is not the true manager.
“How’s your dad?” Ellie asked gently.
“Tired,” Teddy said, looking down at the chips. “They’re changing things again. More appointments. More waiting. More people saying complicated stuff slowly, like that makes it less complicated.”
I hated that.
I also hated that part of me still wanted to push Sapphire’s card across the table and say, Also, here is today’s supernatural disaster menu.
Instead, I said, “We didn’t search Serenity Grove.”
His eyes flicked up.
That got through.
“You didn’t?”
“No. We waited.”
For a second, he just looked at me. Then some tiny part of his shoulders loosened.
“Good,” he said. “Thank you.”
Not smug.
Relieved.
Which made the waiting feel worth it.
“Full disaster menu later,” I said. “When you’re less hospital-shop-sale-apocalypse.”
“My brain appreciates the scheduling consideration.”
“Premium friendship package.”
He gave me half a smile.
Still tired.
Still Teddy.
Back, mostly.
And for today, mostly had to count.
Thursday, June 11, 2026
Sunset Showcase Guilt
Media Studies was second period, which meant I had just survived English before being asked to present something creative, organized, and not emotionally haunted.
A big ask, honestly.
Our group was one of the first to show our 360-degree project, which sounded peaceful if you ignored the part where Ellie and I had contributed approximately twenty percent of the calm and one hundred percent of the haunted background stress.
Noah and Olivia had done most of the presentation prep.
They were nice about it.
Which made it worse.
Noah handled the technical side. Olivia explained the location, the trail, and how we set the camera above the ridge to capture the full 360-degree view.
Ellie talked about the visual mood, because obviously she could make a sunset sound like it had artistic intent instead of just being the sky showing off.
Then it was my turn.
I said something about Hellgate Forest looking different at sunset. Less like somewhere people disappear and more like somewhere the world briefly forgets to be creepy.
Which was possibly too honest.
Mr. Lefevre nodded like I had meant it in a normal Media Studies way.
Excellent.
The video looked good.
Annoying thing: really good.
Orange, pink, and purple light over the trees. Shadow Ridge opening up around the camera. The kind of sunset that looks fake even when you were literally standing there watching it happen.
For a few seconds, the whole classroom went quiet.
Tiny victory.
Afterward, people clapped. Noah looked relieved. Olivia smiled like she was trying not to look too proud. Ellie glanced at me, and I knew she felt it too.
Guilt with bonus sunset.
We had been present, technically. But Noah and Olivia had carried the project while we were busy with Clearwater, black lights, triangle marks, and journalists who store evidence in magic-adjacent wooden boxes.
Normal scheduling conflict.
Mr. Lefevre gave feedback on pacing, sound balance, and how well the 360-degree experience held together for presentation.
Then he moved on to the 2D versions.
Which was when he dropped the actual bomb.
“Our 2D presentations are being shown where?” someone asked.
Mr. Lefevre smiled like this was exciting and not the kind of information that should come with emergency lighting.
“During the interval of Spellbound Harmony Part 1,” he said. “As part of a student showcase. The school wants to celebrate creative work from across departments.”
The room changed.
Not panic exactly.
More like everyone suddenly imagining their class project playing on the auditorium screen while parents bought refreshments and pretended not to judge.
Harmless.
School-spirit harmless.
Mostly it just made half the class panic quietly about fonts.
Usual Booth, New Ask
Teddy had a buyer looking around Chen Print after school.
Another adult measuring his life in square footage, equipment condition, and “business potential.”
So we met at Cascades after dinner for pie.
Not pre-Clearwater pie.
Trying-to-cheer-Teddy-up pie.
Different emergency dessert.
Ellie and I got there first and took the usual booth. We ordered hot chocolate because apparently our bodies now run on sugar, dread, and the tiny amount of calcium in whipped cream.
Teddy arrived twenty minutes later looking like someone had unplugged him and plugged him back in wrong.
“Good news,” he said, sliding into the booth. “I did not attack the buyer with a paper cutter.”
“Personal growth,” I said.
“Dad would be proud.”
He smiled, but it cracked around the edges.
Ellie pushed his hot chocolate toward him.
Extra marshmallows, because Ellie notices things.
Teddy stared at it like one small kindness might actually finish him.
Fair.
Instead, he took a sip.
“Luxury beverage acquired.”
That was Teddy for thank you, I am hanging on by one shoelace.
We caught up on the safe parts. The buyer. His dad’s appointment. His mom and Squirt flying back Saturday. The fact that “not bad news” and “good news” are apparently different categories in hospital language.
Then the apple pie arrived.
Tiny mercy in crust form.
Ellie waited until the server left before clearing her throat.
Small sound.
Big meaning.
“Could I stay at the Meridian this weekend?” she asked. “Felicia’s staying at a friend’s, and Dad has mayor’s business in Truro overnight.”
I tried not to smile too fast.
Failed, probably.
“You were staying anyway, right?”
Ellie gave me a look over her mug. “I thought I would ask first for a change.”
“Wow. Boundaries. We’re evolving.”
“Don’t sound so disappointed.”
“I’m coping privately.”
Teddy made a faint choking noise into his drink.
Almost a laugh.
I took it as a win.
For a few minutes, the booth felt like ours again.
Hot chocolate. Pie. Ellie’s knee brushing mine under the table. Teddy pretending he was fine while letting us pretend with him.
Not fixed.
Not even close.
But together in the usual booth, we could at least hold the shape.
Borrowed normal again.
Still counts twice.
Friday, June 12, 2026
Hallway Land Mine
Friday came with a side of social warfare.
It started in the hallway, because apparently no one in this school can walk from one room to another without creating plot.
Final reminders for the senior prom were plastered near the office, which I ignored on principle because it was not our problem until next year.
Steve Dillon was near the trophy case with a couple of guys from his class, laughing at something on his phone.
Normal Steve.
Tall. Relaxed. Slightly too good at looking like he had never worried about anything in his life.
Then Marilyn passed.
Not alone. Harper Martin was with her, plus two Drama people carrying sheet music and the half-panicked energy of a production close enough to smell fear.
Steve looked up and smiled.
“Hey, Marilyn.”
That was it.
Two words.
Perfectly harmless—except Marilyn smiled back, bright and easy, and said hi like a normal person who had not realized she had just stepped on a land mine wearing lip gloss.
Candy saw.
Because of course Candy saw.
She was farther down the hallway with Kaelyn and Sally, holding her phone like a royal decree. Her face did not change much.
That was the worst part.
No glare.
No dramatic hair flip—just one tiny pause.
One perfect little stillness.
Like a camera focusing.
Marilyn kept walking. Steve went back to his phone. The world continued.
Candy’s brain did not.
I felt Ellie tense beside me.
Not much.
Just enough.
Because apparently noticing Ellie is now one of my full-time hobbies.
Candy Wants Results
At lunch, Ellie barely touched her food.
Candy had cornered her before she sat down, all glossy smile and quiet instructions.
She kept glancing across the cafeteria, where Candy sat with Kaelyn and Sally, smiling too calmly.
Teddy poked at his food too, quiet in a way that made sense and still hurt.
“Okay,” I said. “What did Her Majesty say?”
Ellie’s fork stopped moving.
“She wants results.”
My stomach did not drop this time.
It clenched.
“With Steve?”
Ellie nodded.
Apparently Marilyn smiling at him in the hallway had moved Candy’s timeline from eventually to now.
“She thinks Marilyn’s trying to get attention,” Ellie said.
“Marilyn only said hi.”
“I know.”
“Scandalous. Alert the town council.”
Ellie did not smile.
Which told me everything.
Candy was not mad because Marilyn had done something—Candy was mad because Marilyn existed in a way people noticed without Candy’s permission.
Lead role.
Pageant crown.
Teachers praising her.
Steve smiling at her.
Competition.
Candy does not like competition.
“She asked if we’d forgotten what we were supposed to be doing,” Ellie said. “I told her we hadn’t.”
My chest tightened.
“I had to.”
I hated that she sounded calm.
Not because she was calm.
Because she was practiced.
“She wants something before the party at Three Falls,” Ellie said. “Enough to make Steve think she’s interested. Or make him interested. I don’t know. Just enough to satisfy her.”
Across the room, Candy laughed at something Sally said.
Perfect timing.
Perfect teeth.
Perfect monster management.
Steve was eating fries, completely unaware he had been assigned a role in Candy Steele’s summer campaign of emotional nonsense.
Lucky him.
“We can ask him,” Teddy said eventually. “He did say he’d help. But we don’t trap him. We point him in her direction enough that Candy backs off.”
Ellie looked at me then, and the relief on her face was so small it almost hurt more than panic would have.
“Thank you.”
I wanted to say we should not have to do this.
I wanted to say Candy could arrange her own tragic little romance spreadsheet.
But Ellie already knew that.
So I nudged her knee under the table, where no one could see.
Candy wanted results.
Fine.
We would give her something.
Just not the part she actually wanted.
Avenues and Doors
Teddy being quiet at lunch made more sense after school.
His mom and Squirt were flying back tomorrow, which should have felt like good news.
Family coming home. Squirt chaos returning. Teddy’s mom back where he could actually see her instead of imagining every phone call as a possible disaster update.
But Teddy did not look relieved.
“They spoke to my grandfather,” he said, while we stood near the bike racks pretending this was a normal Friday conversation. “Mum says it’s complicated.”
Complicated.
The worst adult word.
It means no, but with paperwork.
Or yes, but with conditions.
Either way, Teddy’s face had already closed around it, so I did not ask too much. Some doors cost too much to open. Apparently May Chen already knew that.
By the time Mom dropped me at the Meridian, my brain felt like it had been running twelve tabs and one emotional pop-up ad all day.
I found Gramps in the restaurant space, sorting through old movie posters like that was a normal thing to do while other people’s lives were actively trying to collapse.
To be fair, with Gramps, old movie posters are basically his natural habitat.
He looked up when I came in.
“Long day?”
I almost laughed.
Instead, I asked the thing that had been sitting in my chest since what Teddy told us.
“Is there any way you can help Teddy’s dad?”
Gramps went still.
Not frozen.
Careful.
Which I am starting to recognize as a whole language with him.
I gave him the version that made sense: Jin’s treatment. Specialist appointments. Money. Chen Print under pressure. Teddy trying to carry a building on his back while pretending it was just a backpack.
Gramps listened without interrupting. When I finished, he neatened the pile of posters, which had suddenly become important not to crumple.
“I can’t promise anything, Penny,” he said.
My stomach dropped, even though I already knew that was the honest answer.
“But there may be a couple of avenues I can look into. Charity connections. People who sometimes help when medical costs start swallowing families whole.”
Avenues.
Such a Gramps word.
Not answer.
Not solution.
Not miracle.
I wanted to feel only grateful.
I did feel grateful.
But there was another feeling underneath it, because apparently my emotional life now comes with footnotes.
“Thank you,” I said.
He gave me the soft smile. The one that makes him look like the safest person in the world and the most tired person in it at the same time.
“I’ll see what I can do.”
That helped.
A little.
But as I went upstairs to wait for Ellie, I kept thinking about doors.
The ones Gramps opens.
And the ones he never lets me see.
Something Waking Up
Ellie got dropped off just after seven by the mayor’s driver, because her life comes with official transportation and mine comes with haunted evidence storage.
Balance.
I went down to meet her. She climbed out with her overnight bag, waved politely, then waited until the car pulled away before making a face.
“Dad packed three folders and looked stressed about parking.”
“Truro may never recover.”
Gramps was in the lobby when we came in, checking his phone and wearing his not-quite-going-out jacket. The one that says adult plans but not wedding.
He was meeting a prospective restaurant manager at the Italian place and asked if we could help tidy the second apartment on Sunday.
Apparently he might rent it out.
Because of course the new manager needs an apartment.
I thought of it being empty.
The purple bedroom.
Me and Sean when we were kids.
Something sparked.
Holly.
Before it could go anywhere, Ellie said yes.
Traitor.
Gramps thanked us, then left with that careful cheerfulness he gets when he is trying very hard to look ordinary.
The Meridian felt strangely empty afterward.
Not silent. The building is never silent. It creaks, settles, and occasionally makes noises I blame on age because I need boundaries.
Ellie and I went upstairs. She dropped her overnight bag by the chair, and for a second it almost felt like a normal sleepover.
Almost.
I was still thinking about the second apartment. The purple bedroom. Me and Sean. The strange little spark of Holly’s name in my head.
Then my chest started to hurt.
Not sharp.
Not dramatic.
Just a small pulse under the skin.
Then it tightened.
Ellie noticed before I said anything.
“Penny?”
I opened my mouth.
The room tilted.
Not like dizziness—like the Meridian had been pulled backward and something else had slid into place over it.
Darkness.
Cold.
A hum.
Machines. Not one—lots of them. Low and steady, with clicks underneath like something counting.
I couldn’t move.
My arms were held out. My body suspended in some kind of frame, pressure biting at my wrists, chest, back.
The triangle places.
I knew that before I understood anything else.
Cold points touched my skin where the marks had flared. Tubes. Wires. Thin pieces of metal or glass.
Wrists.
Chest.
Back.
I looked down and saw silver bands across me. One around my chest. One around my waist. Not clothes. More like something pretending to be clothes so it could hold the body in the right shape.
The body.
Mine.
Then I turned my head.
Ellie was there.
Hanging in another frame.
Same silver bands. Same tubes. Same terrible stillness.
Her red hair looked wrong in the dark light. Too bright. Too real.
No.
There were others beyond her. Shapes in frames. Arms held. Heads tilted. Bodies arranged like someone had measured them and decided where they belonged.
A boy.
Maybe.
Logan?
I tried to see his face.
The hum got louder.
Something clicked near my ear.
Then the memory snapped.
Not faded.
Snapped.
And I was back.
Except I wasn’t.
For a second, I thought I was still in the dark room.
Then I saw my ceiling. My window seat. Ellie standing beside the bed with both hands over her mouth, eyes huge and wet and terrified.
That was when I realized I was not on the bed.
I was above it.
Floating.
Not high. Not dramatic superhero height—just enough that my body was suspended in the air, arms slightly out, spine stiff, like the frame from the memory had followed me back but forgotten the tubes.
No machines.
No silver bands.
Just me.
Hanging in my room.
Ellie made a sound.
Not a scream.
Worse.
Then gravity remembered me.
I dropped.
Hard.
The bed caught most of me, but my shoulder hit the edge of the bed frame and pain sparked down my arm.
Ellie was on the bed before I fully understood I had landed.
“Penny. Penny, look at me.”
I tried.
My skin felt too hot. My wrists throbbed. My chest felt tight where the triangle had glowed under the black light, like something under my skin had been pulled and not put back properly.
Ellie touched my face, then froze.
“What?” I asked.
My voice came out thin and scraped.
Her eyes moved around mine.
I knew before she said it.
“The veins,” she whispered.
Black veins.
Around my eyes.
Again.
Only this time I had not touched a diary.
No old memory page. No green notebook. No letter.
No deliberate trigger.
Just my body remembering something all by itself.
“Did I scream?” I asked.
Ellie nodded once.
“At the end.”
Her voice broke on the last word.
That did something awful to my chest.
I looked toward the door, suddenly grateful and horrified that Gramps was out. If he had been downstairs, he would have heard.
My wrists still feel like invisible fingers are pressed under the skin.
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