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 20, 2026
Cupcakes and Collapse
I beat Ellie to Cascades.
By three minutes.
Which obviously meant I acted like I had achieved something athletic and historic, instead of just walking faster because my brain had turned anxiety into cardio.
Ellie arrived while I was already in line. Heart-fluttering summer dress. Hair loose around her shoulders. Bright in the window light.
She smiled, and the café got less loud.
“You’re early,” she said.
“I know. I’m growing as a person.”
She looked at the cupcake display. “You wanted first choice.”
Also true.
Growth postponed.
We got strawberry-frosted cupcakes for the diary deep dive because Saturday required frosting support, plus strawberry-and-cream milkshakes, since Cascades had chosen a theme and committed hard.
For a few minutes, we were almost normal.
Coffee steam. Clinking cups. People making weekend plans that did not involve secret messages, diary chaos, or late-approved Clearwater paperwork.
Very rude of them, honestly.
Existing peacefully in public.
We took the milkshakes to the park and found a bench under one of the trees.
Safe enough to talk. Public enough not to feel like the universe was about to drop a trapdoor under us.
The cupcakes stayed in the box, ready for the afternoon diary deep dive.
Ellie already knew about Teddy. I called her last night after Mom dropped me at the Meridian, because girlfriend status apparently comes with emergency emotional debrief privileges.
Still, talking about it in person felt different—harder.
Last night had been words through a phone. Today was Ellie sitting beside me, quiet and real, while the whole Chen Print thing sat between us with its horrible little cardboard-box energy.
“The shop isn’t just the shop,” Ellie said.
And yeah.
That landed.
Because it isn’t. Chen Print is ink and paper. Weird stacks of orders. Squirt invading with opinions and probably glitter. Teddy leaning over counters, fixing files, binding school yearbooks, pretending not to be tired.
The upstairs apartment.
The printer noise.
His family trying to build something after already surviving too much.
“His texts were so calm,” I said. “Like he was reporting a printer jam instead of his whole life maybe being packed into boxes.”
Ellie looked down at her milkshake.
“Teddy does that,” she said. “Turns panic into something manageable.”
Which was exactly the problem.
Because I need him for that.
That is the part I hate writing down.
Teddy.
Best friend Teddy.
Nintendo, Doctor Who, Teddy.
I need him for all the ways his brain turns panic into systems before mine turns it into bad decisions and sarcasm.
But Teddy does not exist to be my emergency mystery kit.
He has a dad who is sick. A mom trying to hold a whole life together with both hands. A little sister who should not have to understand why grown-ups get quiet around money.
And I still waited before telling him about important chaos, even though I knew being left out hurt him.
Excellent friend behavior, Penny.
Ellie didn’t tell me it was fine. I think I liked her even more for that.
She just touched my hand, careful and warm.
“We don’t stop needing him,” she said. “We just have to remember he needs us too.”
So yeah.
Then reality sat down beside us and stole the bench.
Third Diary Push
Teddy came over after lunch.
He looked like someone had slept, technically, but not in a way that helped.
Hoodie ink-stained at the cuff. Hair flat on one side. Running on emergency battery mode and stubbornness. Classic Teddy.
I asked if he wanted to do the diary deep dive today.
He said yes before I even finished.
“I need to do something useful,” he said. Not “I’m fine.”
Ellie glanced at me. I glanced at her. We both knew saying more out loud would make someone bolt.
So we set up in my room: the diaries, Bobby notes, the Web, the Matrix, water, cupcakes, snacks. Three teenagers running a paranormal admin department out of a bedroom. Very professional. Very alarming.
We picked up Younger Penny’s third diary where we’d left off. Ellie shared the memory blasts like usual, gripping my hand tight and translating what we experienced so Teddy could take notes.
Memory blasts hit like static shocks. A hallway. Cold hand sanitizer. Younger me feeling sick before Clearwater. One flash of Gramps at Veiled Isle, that made me stop and breathe.
My head ached. Not dramatic. Not screaming. Just enough to remind me my body had joined the investigation without asking permission.
We got past the Dad and Sean anniversary entries.
Bad.
Heart bad.
Younger me wrote around grief rather than into it—pancakes, homework, what Gramps let her watch at the Meridian—anything to avoid writing the shape of missing people. I understood that too much.
Then Christmas. The usual forced cheer. Mom being Mom. Gramps trying too hard in that soft way that makes everything worse and better at the same time.
Then Clearwater. Again. Always again.
The pattern: dread before visits, gaps after, flat entries, then frantic notes as if Younger Penny had woken up and realized someone moved the furniture.
But the biggest thing was what wasn’t there.
More pages had been torn out. Not one or two. Enough that the diary felt injured. Ragged edges near the spine. Missing days. Missing thoughts.
Teddy ran his thumb along one torn edge and went quiet.
The pages were gone from the diary, but maybe not gone-gone. Someone had torn them out, which meant someone might have kept them. Hidden them. Moved them somewhere they were supposed to survive.
Which raised one horrible, obvious question we had somehow been avoiding.
Where are they?
Ellie whispered, “Do you think she took them out?”
“Holly,” Teddy said softly, like he hated even saying it.
I tried not to imagine my aunt tearing pages out with shaking hands, hiding pieces of my life. But why? Dad and Sean? Clearwater? No answer. Just torn paper, and the ugly feeling that absence can be evidence if you stare long enough.
By the end of the third diary, my head was tight behind my eyes. Teddy looked even more tired than when he arrived. My migraine returned, like an old friend turning up unannounced. Thankfully it didn’t hit Ellie.
We’d covered a lot today.
Great progress.
Zero answers.
Maximum emotional damage.
The missing pages felt louder than everything we had actually read.
Dragon Plan, Teddy Version
After the deep dive, none of us moved for a minute.
Not in a dramatic haunted way.
More in a “three people have stared at paper chaos for too long and now require a software update” way.
Ellie was the first one to say what we were all avoiding.
“We should do Teddy’s version of the dragon plan.”
Teddy blinked. “My version?”
“Recovery anchor,” she said. “Like the drawing helped me.”
Which made him go very still.
Because Teddy likes systems when they belong to computers, boards, folders, and other things that do not have feelings. He is less excited when the system is basically, “What if your best friends have to rebuild you after Clearwater messes with your head?”
Funny, that.
But he didn’t argue.
He looked at the diaries, then Bobby, then the Matrix, like he was mentally sorting himself into categories.
“We should do it,” he said. “Before Friday.”
I hated how fast he said it.
Not because he was wrong—because it sounded like he had already accepted the possibility that he might not be here afterward.
Not here as in alive, obviously. My brain did not need that extra nightmare.
Here as in Meridia Falls. Chen Print. Close enough to come over after lunch and sit on my floor with snacks and terrible decisions.
We talked through the plan.
The dragon drawing worked for Ellie because it was personal and emotional and hers. Teddy’s needed to be Teddy-shaped. Something he would still recognize if the world tried to sand the edges off him.
Very normal Saturday planning.
Top five emotionally healthy activities, probably.
He said he would think of a suitable anchor.
Then he asked if he could take Truthweaver home.
He wanted to keep searching while he had time.
While he had time.
Excellent phrase. Loved that. Very gentle on the nervous system.
I tried to make a joke about him not using Ruby’s terrifying hacker laptop to break into a bank and fund his dad’s treatment through extremely illegal friendship.
Teddy almost smiled.
Almost.
“Tempting,” he said. “But I’m starting with searching, not felonies.”
“Growth,” I said.
Ellie’s mouth twitched, but her eyes stayed worried.
When he left, the room felt too quiet.
Everything was still on the bed. Bobby was still watching from the wall with “Soon” underlined like it had opinions. Ellie sat beside me, close enough that our shoulders touched.
I was suddenly very glad she was staying.
Not in a dramatic “I cannot survive without you” way.
More in a “the room feels less impossible when you are in it” way.
Which is probably still dramatic.
But also true.
Ellie does that.
Makes the chaos quieter without pretending it is gone.
Sunday, June 21, 2026
Church and Waterfalls
Sunday was Father’s Day.
Which always feels like stepping on a loose floorboard—small until your whole stomach drops.
I save the Veiled Isle Garden of Remembrance for Dad’s birthday. Father’s Day is smaller. His favorite playlist. A slice of pecan pie. Me pretending that counts as normal.
I gave Gramps a card too, because not giving him one felt wrong, and giving him one made my chest do complicated origami.
Teddy was in Halifax with his mom and Squirt visiting his dad, and Ellie had already done an early Father’s Day meal because her dad was away on mayor business again.
Clearwater was still sitting at the end of the week too, which meant my brain kept politely offering me images of silver bands and hanging frames like that was helpful.
Then came church.
Not mine, technically.
Ellie’s.
I am still not sure what category I fall into there. Girlfriend-who-doesn’t-go-inside? Quiet bench accessory? Person trying not to overthink hymn books?
Probably all of the above.
Ellie seemed calmer there. Not fixed. Ellie is not a screensaver. But the routine settles her shoulders somehow. Standing. Sitting. Singing. People smiling at her without asking questions I do not want answered.
I waited in the park like usual.
It was shaping up to be another glorious day, which felt suspicious on principle.
Afterward, instead of heading back to the Meridian, Ellie asked if I wanted to go to Three Falls.
I must have made a face.
Not a huge face.
A tiny face.
Apparently tiny face was enough.
“It’s not always terrible,” she said.
Very reassuring sentence about a place connected to water, Hellgate Forest, memory weirdness, and my body’s ongoing supernatural crime-scene era.
But it was hot. One of those suspiciously perfect Meridia Falls days that brings in tourists and lets locals pretend the weather is normal.
Ellie suggested we grab picnic supplies from Cascades, which was unfair because I am weak against good sandwiches, cold drinks, and girls with red hair making summer sound reasonable.
I added pecan pie to the order.
Dad’s favorite.
So we went.
Annoyingly, she was right.
Three Falls was not terrible.
Rude.
We followed Mystic Falls Path down toward the lower pool, which is apparently the safe, normal, family-friendly part.
Very bold of Hellgate Forest to have one of those.
There were families around, teenagers on towels, and little kids shrieking at the cold water like it had personally betrayed them. The falls were loud enough to make everything feel private without actually being hidden.
Sunlight caught the spray.
The rocks were warm under my hands.
The lower pool looked almost harmless.
Almost.
We paddled.
I know.
Me. Voluntarily putting my feet in water.
Character development, or heatstroke. Too early to tell.
Ellie did not ask if I was okay every twelve seconds. She just stayed beside me, her foot brushing mine once under the water.
Tiny contact.
Major brain malfunction.
After that, we ate on one of the warm rocks, and I saved the pecan pie until last.
I put in one earbud and gave Ellie the other, then played the first song from Dad’s skate playlist.
“Scenario” by A Tribe Called Quest.
One of his favorites.
She did not say anything too big.
Thank the universe.
She just leaned her shoulder against mine while the falls made enough noise to let me pretend my eyes were watering because of the spray.
Small ritual.
Big feelings.
Still very inconvenient.
After we ate, we walked one of the easier trails. Nothing dramatic happened. No black veins. No mystery app. No Candy Gang appearing from behind a tree like a designer-clothed curse.
Definitely Not Fungus
That should have been the perfect end to the afternoon.
Picnic. Paddling. Trail walk. Bird ignorance.
Very wholesome.
Very suspicious in hindsight.
Ellie and I were following one of the easier trails back toward Mystic Falls Path when she stopped so suddenly I almost walked into her.
“What?” I asked.
She pointed.
At first, I thought it was just a tree—important nature update: forests contain trees.
Then I saw the crack.
It ran down the bark in a thin, jagged line. Not wide enough to look dramatic, but bright enough to make my stomach forget how gravity worked. Orange light glowed from inside it, faint in the afternoon sun, like something under the bark was awake and absolutely not supposed to be.
We had seen that kind of wrong before.
Not exactly the same. The one inside the maintenance tent had been on the ground, rising into the air like a rip in reality. This was smaller. Quieter.
Still wrong.
The world had split a little.
Ellie reached for my hand without looking away from the tree.
“Penny,” she said.
“I know.”
Which was a very calm answer from someone whose brain had started screaming, tree crack? magic disease? Hellgate Forest doing Hellgate Forest things?
We took one step closer.
That was all we got.
A sharp voice called from behind us. “Please move back from the area.”
Two dark SUVs had appeared near the trail entrance.
I do not know how SUVs appear quietly in a forest-adjacent parking area, but apparently suspicious people take classes.
The logo on the side said TRION NETWORKS in letters clean enough to look expensive.
Same one we had seen before.
Because of course it was.
Within minutes, people in shiny protective suits were unrolling yellow tape around the tree. Not normal raincoat shiny. Not science-class-goggles shiny. More like “definitely-no-bio-radiation-here, citizen” shiny.
Several hikers stopped to watch. One little kid asked if the tree was radioactive, and his mother made the universal parent face of please do not say the interesting word louder.
A man in one of the suits stepped forward, voice smooth and practiced.
“Nothing to worry about. We’ve identified a dangerous fungal infection in this tree. For your safety, please keep your distance while we contain the affected area.”
Fungus.
Right.
Absolutely.
Classic glowing bark fungus.
Known for its mystical orange shimmer and emergency corporate response teams.
Very natural. Very forest.
They had a tent up around the tree before most people could even take a photo. Fast poles. White fabric. Stakes. Tape. A portable barrier.
The crack disappeared behind the canvas—like the world had blinked and decided we had imagined it.
Except I had my Polaroid.
Tiny victory.
Possibly evidence.
Possibly future anxiety with a white border.
Ellie’s hand tightened around mine.
No one else seemed scared exactly. Curious, yes. Annoyed, definitely. A few people joked about zombie trees. Someone asked if the trail would reopen later.
The man in the suit smiled like smiling was part of the equipment.
I looked at the Trion logo again.
Then at the tent.
Then at Ellie.
She looked pale, but steady.
So not fungus.
Not even close.
We walked away with everyone else, because staying would have meant questions, and questions are apparently how you get escorted away by sparkling mushroom police.
But I kept looking back.
The tent sat between the trees, clean and white and wrong.
Another ordinary thing covered before anyone could properly see it.
Date Night Logic
When we got back to the Meridian, Gramps was out furniture hunting for the second apartment.
Actual phrase he used.
Furniture hunting.
Like somewhere in Meridia Falls, a herd of art deco chairs was roaming wild and he had gone out with a measuring tape and heroic determination.
Ellie and I were still carrying Three Falls with us. Not the good part. The other part.
The tree crack. The orange glow. The dark SUVs. TRION NETWORKS. The tent going up before anyone could ask useful questions.
So obviously, I texted Teddy.
Me: Found another glowing crack. Tree bark this time. Three Falls. Trion Networks showed up and tented it.
His reply came fast.
Teddy: Polaroids? Me: Of course. Teddy: Good. Do not investigate without me. Me: Rude that you know me. Teddy: Correct that I know you.
Very annoying.
Very fair.
Ellie and I made it to my room, and for approximately eleven seconds, I tried not to look like I needed to hear her say she was still staying tonight.
Casual.
Smooth.
Definitely not obvious.
Ellie looked at me like I had said it out loud.
“I’m staying,” she said.
So that happened.
My heart did a tiny, humiliating victory dance.
Then she decided that if this was going to be our last night before Clearwater, we were not spending all of it in hoodies, eating snacks out of packets like emotionally damaged raccoons.
Her words were nicer.
The meaning was clear.
Date night.
Ellie called her dad first, because Father’s Day still counted even if they had done their meal the other night, before he left on mayor business.
I pretended not to listen.
Mostly.
Her voice went softer with him than it does with almost anyone else.
Before we got dressed, I put a slice of pecan pie in the fridge for Gramps.
Father’s Day dessert.
Our version of tradition.
She had packed another dress in her overnight bag, because apparently Ellie prepares for romance, medical dread, and supernatural evidence with equal efficiency.
It was blue. Soft summer blue. The kind of dress that looked like it belonged to someone who knew what she was doing.
So, obviously, she handed it to me.
Me. In a dress again.
No way, not for anyone.
Except Ellie was not anyone.
She was Ellie.
So yeah. Absolutely.
It fit better than I expected, which felt unfair to several laws of anxiety. Ellie stood behind me in the mirror and fixed one strap where I had twisted it wrong.
For a second, I thought about the prom dresses last week.
Next year.
The phrase sat between us without either of us saying it.
Dinner was at the Italian place on Main Street. Cucina d’Oro, technically, though I have literally never heard anyone call it that unless they were reading the sign.
Same place Ellie and Felicia had taken their dad on Thursday night for early Father’s Day.
Which made sense. Pasta was apparently a Horton family coping strategy.
It was busier than usual because of Father’s Day. Families at tables. Kids leaning into dads. Cards propped beside wineglasses, and water glasses, and half-finished plates.
I thought it would hurt more than it did.
Maybe the pecan pie had already taken the edge off.
Or maybe Ellie sitting across from me helped.
It was nice. Actually nice. Pasta, bread, low lights, Ellie smiling across the table like I was allowed to have this.
Like we were allowed.
I kept checking the feeling, because apparently happiness now requires suspicion paperwork.
But nothing broke.
Afterward, we went back to the Meridian.
And the rest of the night stays ours.
Personal time.
No details for the diary.
Not because I want to forget it.
Because I don’t.
Monday, June 22, 2026
Yearbook Day Weirdness
Monday looked like the school had been redecorated overnight.
The prom posters from last week had mostly vanished, replaced by Spellbound Harmony posters on classroom doors, hallway boards, and anywhere a wall had surrendered.
Apparently the school had moved from glitter politics to musical theater panic.
Healthy progress.
Then the universe looked at everything already happening this week and thought, You know what this needs? Emotional paper products.
The yearbooks arrived in big cardboard boxes near the office before Homeroom, stacked on a trolley with CHEN PRINT labels still taped to the sides.
I noticed those first.
Of course I did.
Teddy noticed too.
He stopped walking for half a second, like the label had physically tapped him on the chest. Then he kept moving because Teddy Chen does not collapse in hallways. He processes trauma later, probably in a spreadsheet.
Very healthy.
The yearbooks looked good.
Annoyingly good.
Glossy covers. Sharp photos. Clean binding. No pages trying to escape. The kind of finished thing that makes a school suddenly act like it has always been organized and sentimental, instead of mostly held together with bells, printer jams, and people shouting “move” in hallways.
I had helped bind some of them.
So had Ellie.
So had Teddy, obviously, because Chen Print had basically eaten his entire life for weeks and then asked for dessert.
Seeing everyone grab copies and flip through them should have felt satisfying. Tiny victory. Local business success. School memories trapped between covers before reality could mess with them.
Instead, it felt like staring at evidence.
Not mystery evidence.
Worse.
Real-life evidence.
Chen Print had made these—Teddy’s family had made these. The print shop smell was practically still in the glue and ink. Proof that the shop mattered in a way nobody was noticing, because people only notice things after they are gone.
Teddy accepted his copy and tucked it under his arm without opening it.
That was rude.
Not him.
The sadness.
At lunch, people were already passing yearbooks around and asking for signatures like the school year was politely ending and not sprinting toward a cliff in glitter shoes.
Teddy had already declared going back to the glowing tree crack a terrible idea, which was rude because he was right. We had Polaroids. We had the Trion name. We had zero good reasons to get escorted away by shiny fungus-response people twice in twenty-four hours.
Or worse, end up with Sergeant Dillon on our case.
Marilyn was with the Drama crowd, getting compliments about Friday. Candy was nearby, looking pleasant in that way that never means pleasant.
Ellie saw her and went still for half a second.
Not enough for anyone else to notice, probably.
Enough for me.
The invisible leash was still there.
Fraying, maybe.
But there.
Show-Week Machinery
Drama was ordinary school machinery, only louder and with more people losing things they had definitely been holding six seconds ago.
Miss Rivers ran us through show-week reminders with the expression of someone who had accepted that teenagers were both necessary and deeply unreliable.
Props had to be preset by scene. Nothing could live “somewhere backstage,” because “somewhere backstage” is not a location. It is a cry for help.
Projection cues had to match scene changes. Forest effects. Gate glow. Sky shifts. Magical atmosphere. All the pretty stuff that looks effortless only when people like Ellie are quietly keeping it from collapsing.
The interval showcase got mentioned too, mostly as a timing thing between acts.
Just a normal school celebration of student work.
Ellie spent most of class fixing a painted edge that someone had scuffed and checking how one of the projected backdrops hit the set pieces. She had paint on one finger and concentration tucked into her mouth like she was holding a thought there.
Marilyn ran part of a scene while we worked.
She was good.
Enough that people stopped pretending they were not watching.
By the end, my prop list had three new emergency notes, Ellie had saved at least two visual disasters, and Friday felt less like a performance and more like a trap with refreshments.
Very festive.
Tuesday, June 23, 2026
Presentation Static
Media Studies was last period today, which meant we got to spend the afternoon watching Meridia Falls look peaceful on purpose.
Very suspicious.
Mr. Lefevre called it a “final presentation check,” which sounded important until it mostly became people clicking through exported files and making sure nothing was upside down, silent, pixelated, or still saved under a misspelled working title.
Teenage creativity.
Very organized.
The projects were harmless—that was the point.
There was our sunset one, Teddy’s boardwalk one, a harbor montage, local murals, old shop signs on Main Street, and one that was basically three minutes of trees looking dramatic in wind.
Someone had done a nice one around Town Hall too, all neat paths and clean civic pride, with zero mention of white maintenance tents or anything creepy lurking beside perfectly trimmed grass.
Rude omission, honestly.
Candy’s group slot came up near the end.
Seven Trees Style Showcase.
Very tasteful. Very local. Very Candy-adjacent without technically being called “Candy’s project.”
I’m sure that was an accident and not branding with plausible deniability.
Candy was not dramatic about it. She sat with her group like this was all boring school nonsense.
Sally was beside her, fitting in too easily.
That still bothered me.
Not because Sally had done anything in that second. Because the space beside Candy should have felt empty in a way people noticed.
Jemma-shaped.
Instead, everyone acted like the seating chart had always looked that way.
Wednesday, June 24, 2026
Summer Seminar Surprise
Mom dropped the news before breakfast.
Not gently.
Not dramatically either.
Just while pouring coffee into her travel mug like she was announcing weather instead of casually rearranging my entire summer.
“I’ll be away for July and August,” she said.
I froze with one hand on the cereal box.
Very dignified.
Apparently the spa network she works with is running some professional development seminar. Business strategy. Advanced treatments. Client management. All the adult words that make “I am leaving town for two months” sound like a brochure.
She said it was a good opportunity.
She said it would help with the spa.
She said she had already spoken to Walter and I could stay with him while she was away.
Walter.
Not Gramps.
Mom uses his actual name when she wants the conversation emotionally refrigerated.
I should have reacted like a normal daughter whose mother was leaving for most of the summer.
Instead, my first thought was: Meridian summer.
Then guilt, because apparently my emotional settings are panic, guilt, and suspicious hope.
I tried not to smile too obviously.
I failed.
Mom noticed.
Of course she noticed.
“This is still a responsibility,” she said.
Classic.
There it was.
The string attached to the balloon.
I have to check on the house. Make sure mail does not pile up. Water the plants. Keep an eye on things. Not treat staying at the Meridian like some extended holiday where rules stop existing and I become a feral cinema goblin.
Her words were different.
The meaning was clear.
I said yes to all of it because obviously I did. I would agree to alphabetize every towel in the house if it meant almost two months at the Meridian instead of two months being silently judged by walls at home.
She also reminded me that Clearwater arrangements did not change.
Because of course.
She had already talked to Ellie’s dad about Clearwater travel for July and August, because apparently adults can make medical dread sound like carpool planning.
My cereal went soggy.
I did not care.
Two months with Gramps.
Freedom.
With diary chaos, obviously.
Very glamorous.
Then Mom left to meet a friend with absolutely no idea she had just given me the safest-sounding dangerous thing in the world.
A whole summer closer to the truth.
Lunch Announcement Lag
By lunch, I had managed not to tell anyone about the summer thing for approximately four hours.
Personal restraint record.
Probably.
I waited until Ellie and Teddy were both at the table because telling one of them separately would have made it feel like a secret, and we have already established that my recent secret-management skills are not winning awards.
Teddy looked tired again. Not dramatic tired. More like his face was present but his brain had several background tabs open, all labeled Chen Print, Dad, Money, Please Do Not Crash.
“So,” I said, because apparently I start major life updates like a suspicious email. “Mom is going away July and August. Spa seminar thing. Business training. Advanced treatments. Adult words.”
Teddy blinked. “Two months?”
“Yep.”
Ellie’s eyebrows lifted. “Where are you staying?”
“With Gramps.”
That came out too fast—too bright.
Ellie smiled anyway. Properly smiled.
“Penny, that’s good.”
And it was.
Two months at the Meridian meant Gramps pancakes, old movies, Bobby, the diaries, and all the strange corners that keep turning into clues. It meant not waking up at home, waiting to find out what part of me was wrong before breakfast.
It meant air.
Then Ellie said, “At least you’ll have company if the new apartment tenant moves in.”
I pointed at her with a fry. “Do not tempt fate.”
She looked far too innocent for someone actively tempting fate.
Teddy made a tiny sound that might have been a laugh if it had survived the journey.
Then he went quiet.
Not angry quiet.
His-dad-and-Chen-Print quiet.
My good news sat on the table between us, suddenly wearing heavy boots.
I was getting more Meridian.
More safety.
And Teddy might be losing Chen Print because his dad was sick and adults were running out of options.
Classic universe. Balance the scales by dropping one side on someone’s foot.
I wanted to fold the happiness smaller, but that would have been worse. Teddy does not need my pity wearing a fake mustache and pretending to be sensitivity.
So I just said, “It still feels weird.”
Teddy looked back at me.
“Good weird?”
“Suspicious good weird.”
That got half a smile.
Tiny. Tired.
But real enough.
Ellie’s knee touched mine under the table.
For about three seconds, lunch felt almost normal again.
Then the bell rang, because school hates emotional timing.
Bridge Hope
After school, Ellie and I stopped at Cascades for salted caramel frappes.
Because apparently my coping strategy is now sugar, salted caramel, and walking around Meridia Falls with my girlfriend while pretending the week is not shaped like a trap.
Healthy.
We took them to the park and walked toward the bridge over the lake. The evening was warm, golden, and rude enough to look like summer had already arrived, even though Friday was still sitting on the calendar like a threat with theater tickets.
Ellie was quiet for a while.
Thinking quiet.
Then she said, “Do you think the drawing will work again?”
The dragon drawing.
The recovery anchor.
The thing that helped bring her back after Clearwater tried to slide parts of her away.
I wanted to say yes because that is what you say when someone you love sounds scared.
Instead, I said, “I desperately hope so.”
Ellie nodded like she understood the difference.
We stood on the bridge, looking at the lake catching sunset in broken pieces. Her shoulder brushed mine—and neither of us moved away.
“I don’t want to lose this,” she said.
Two seconds.
Six words.
Total emotional damage.
“Me neither,” I said, because anything bigger would have cracked open too much.
Then my phone buzzed before I could attempt Feelings: Advanced Level.
Gramps: If you’re nearby, come see the apartment before I show it to the new tenant.
I read it twice.
“Apparently we are being invited to inspect furniture prey.”
Ellie smiled, but her eyes were still soft from the bridge.
Furniture Prey
We went back to the Meridian.
The second apartment looked different furnished. Not wrong. More like someone had listened to the room before filling it. Light wood. Soft curves. Warm lamps. Art deco shapes that made the place feel polished without making it cold.
Very Gramps.
Very suspiciously perfect.
The purple bedroom still pulled at me.
Not loudly. More like pressure behind the wallpaper. A memory holding its breath.
I glanced toward the closet before I could stop myself.
Empty now—cleared.
No padded hanger. No holly sprig.
Which somehow made the room feel less solved, not more.
Gramps saw me look, of course, because Gramps sees everything and explains approximately four percent of it.
He just smiled gently and said, “I bet this would make a lovely home office.”
That was not an answer.
It was a clue.
Had Holly used this as an office?
Classic Gramps.
I asked when the new tenant was arriving.
Gramps reached into his pocket.
“She already has,” he said.
Then he held out the keys.
For a second, my brain did absolutely nothing useful.
Just blank screen. Spinning wheel. Please wait while Penny Summers attempts to process kindness.
“These are for you,” he said. “For the summer. While your mother’s away.”
I stared at the keys.
Then at the apartment.
Then at Gramps.
Then back at the keys, because apparently they might vanish if I stopped supervising them.
“You mean… here?”
“Unless you object to the view.”
“And you’re just… next door.”
“Close enough if you need me,” he said. “Far enough for you to try it properly.”
Adult training wheels.
I did not object.
I did not object to the view.
I did not object to anything.
I hugged him so fast I nearly knocked the keys out of his hand.
He laughed softly and hugged me back, warm and steady and real. Ellie stood beside us, smiling in that quiet way that made my chest hurt.
I should have said thank you properly.
I probably did.
But mostly I stood there holding the keys, feeling relief spread through me so hard it almost scared me.
Because this was safety.
Not complete safety. Not mystery-solved safety. Not Clearwater-can’t-touch-us safety.
But an apartment.
A door.
A place that was mine for a while.
And underneath all of it, Holly’s purple room waited, reminding me that Gramps had given me shelter inside a question.
Which is very him.
And maybe exactly what I needed.
Thursday, June 25, 2026
Summer Homework Trap
English started with Miss Rivers wasting exactly zero time before giving us a summer assignment.
Write about someone who inspires you. Explain why they inspire you, what they’ve done, and one thing you would ask them if you could meet them.
Deadline: first week back after summer.
Purpose: keep our brains ticking over while pretending it’s optional.
Then Media Studies followed, with homework disguised as freedom.
Classic teacher move.
Mr. Lefevre announced our summer project like he was handing us treasure instead of assigning work that would follow us into July.
Create a website of your choosing.
Alone or in groups.
Subject open. Deadline after summer break. Apparently the point was planning, design, audience awareness, and other words teachers usewhen they want homework to sound empowering.
Very educational.
Very trap-shaped.
Teddy leaned back in his chair and said, “We should team up.”
Not dramatic. Not intense.
Just obvious.
Penny. Teddy. Ellie.
One group.
A tiny future plan—sitting there on a normal Thursday like the universe had not been trying to shred all our calendars.
Ellie glanced at me, then him. “We could do something around Meridia Falls.”
“Or mystery architecture,” Teddy said. “Old buildings. Hidden history. Weird town maps.”
“And we have a brand-new base of operations,” he added.
I pointed at him. “My new apartment is not becoming a website studio.”
“Too late. I’ve mentally assigned outlets.”
Ellie smiled into her notebook.
Which was unfair, because for half a second, it almost felt possible.
Not the honest version, obviously.
Maybe not We Made a Website About All the Creepy Things Adults Keep Lying About as a school project.
Shame, really.
Strong audience engagement potential.
We stopped there. Mr. Lefevre was only making us choose groups and think broadly, which was good, because my brain had already found the crack in the plan.
If Teddy is still here.
There it was.
Summer means after Friday. After Clearwater. After the play. After whatever happens with Chen Print.
Teddy wrote our names on the planning sheet.
Penny Summers.
Ellie Horton.
Teddy Chen.
Normal ink. Normal paper. Normal school assignment.
My chest still did the stupid aching thing.
Final Rehearsal Pressure
By Drama, the whole school had started vibrating at show-night frequency.
Technically, it was final dress rehearsal. Drama was last period, and Miss Rivers had added an extra hour after school for everyone involved, because apparently final dress rehearsal does not care about buses, homework or even human limits.
Emotionally, it was everyone discovering that “ready” is a lie adults invented to stop teenagers screaming.
Miss Rivers had a clipboard.
Never a good sign.
She kept moving between the stage, the front row, the sound desk, and the wings with the expression of someone trying to hold an entire musical together using eye contact and controlled breathing.
Relatable, honestly.
I was on props, which meant guarding tables like they contained cursed artifacts instead of goblets, scrolls, fake flowers, ribbon, wooden charms, and one basket that had already vanished twice despite being roughly the size of a small child.
My system was beautiful.
Labels. Scene order. Backup list. Emergency tape. Pencil marks. Tiny paper flags.
Very glamorous.
Very close to becoming a villain if one more actor put a prop back in the wrong place.
Ellie was doing visual emergency support, which mostly meant appearing wherever something looked slightly wrong and making it look intentional.
Her hands had paint and safety pins and calm magic.
Not actual magic.
Probably.
The interval reel got tested while people changed scenes.
Projection screen down cleanly. Image sharp. Sound levels working.
Very reassuring.
By the end, everything looked ready.
The props were preset. Ellie’s fixes held. Marilyn was shining. Adults were almost smiling.
On paper, that should have made me feel better—it did not.
It made Friday feel like a glass ornament someone had already cracked, waiting for the right hand to touch it.
Pie Night Rescue Story
Teddy missed most of the afternoon.
Not vanished-mysteriously missed.
Real-life missed.
Chen Print meeting missed. Family paperwork missed. Adults talking in careful voices about money and treatment and whether a shop can be saved or has to become a memory missed.
By the time Ellie and I got to Cascades for pre-Clearwater pie night, I had built approximately twelve disaster versions of how the meeting might have gone.
All of them bad.
Some involved Teddy moving back to the UK by Monday.
One involved him pretending everything was fine while actually living inside a cardboard box labeled Laser Paper.
Anxiety is creative.
Rude, but creative.
Teddy arrived ten minutes late—and sat down before either of us could ask.
“It’s okay,” he said.
Two words.
My brain did not accept them.
Ellie’s hand found mine under the table.
Teddy explained it carefully, like people do when good news is so big it feels unsafe to say quickly.
His grandfather came through.
May Chen’s father. The one in China. The one who had been silent. Apparently he called. Apparently he is covering Jin’s treatment and the outstanding medical bills.
Not just that.
He is also paying for extra help at Chen Print. Proper shop support. Enough that they do not have to sell and Teddy does not have to become a one-person print department with homework.
For a second, I could not breathe right.
Relief hit too hard.
Like falling backward into water and realizing it is warm instead of deep.
Chen Print was safe.
Teddy’s dad’s treatment was covered.
Teddy was staying.
Tears rolled down my cheeks, and I let them.
The pie arrived, because Cascades has excellent timing when emotionally significant pastry is required.
I laughed. Not because it was funny. Because the pressure in my chest had nowhere else to go.
“That’s amazing,” Ellie said softly.
Teddy nodded, and this time he actually looked relieved.
Tired. Still Teddy-tired.
But relieved.
Then I noticed the wristband.
Blue. Pulled low over his right wrist.
He saw me looking and turned it just enough for me to read the lettering.
“Halifax Memorial cancer research,” he said.
Of course.
That made sense.
His dad. The hospital. Everything.
So we ate pie and let the good news be good news.
For once, nobody poked the miracle too hard.
Blue Box Anchor
After pie night, we moved back to the Meridian for Clearwater prep.
Because apparently the correct response to massive emotional relief is not sleeping.
It is evidence storage, video updates, handwritten letters, and one ritual involving a fictional time machine.
Very normal Thursday night.
Very us.
Ellie updated her letter first while Teddy updated his video, then they swapped over.
While they were doing that, I slipped downstairs and told Gramps the Chen Print news.
Just the practical version.
Teddy’s dad’s treatment was covered now, and the shop did not have to be sold.
Gramps listened, then nodded like someone quietly crossing three invisible plans off a list.
“Good,” he said. “I’m glad.”
Which was very Gramps for—I was absolutely looking into things and will deny this under oath.
By the time I got back upstairs, Ellie and Teddy were nearly done.
I made sure my letters were ready too. One on my desk, where Sunday-me would actually see it. One ready to mail tomorrow.
Then we stripped Bobby.
That felt worse than I expected.
“Soon” came down. The Serenity Grove pages. Logan Collins’s birthday, still sitting there like the universe had made a clerical error on purpose. The glyph placement sketch. The Clearwater reset window. Sapphire Bliss’s card, still untouched because apparently even our emergencies have a waiting list.
Ellie’s covered charcoal drawing came down last.
Neither of us looked at it.
We didn’t need to.
All the chaos research.
Which I am claiming as the official category now.
Everything important went into the window seat.
Truthweaver too, after Teddy gave us the update he had been sitting on.
“I’ve been trying to find that other UK facility,” he said. “The one from the second diary. The fire. I have a few leads. Nothing I trust yet.”
Classic Teddy.
Even his almost-discoveries arrive with quality control.
Then came Teddy’s recovery anchor.
Ellie pulled out her art tray, and I ripped a clean page from the back of my diary.
Teddy stared at the blank sheet like it had personally challenged him.
“I am not an artist,” he said.
“No one has accused you of that.”
Ellie kicked my ankle gently.
Supportive girlfriend violence.
Teddy picked up a blue pencil and started drawing.
Not smoothly. Teddy’s lines were careful and awkward, with a lot of stopping, checking, correcting, and muttering at the paper like it had technical requirements.
But the shape appeared—a blue police box.
Windows. Panels. Little sign. Light on top.
The TARDIS.
Of course it was.
Nintendo, Doctor Who, Teddy.
A box bigger on the inside.
A thing that disappears and still comes back.
When he finished, he looked embarrassed, which was ridiculous because my chest had started doing something inconvenient.
Ellie smiled. “Great choice.”
I took the pencil from him and wrote above it:
T, I really wish this could bring you back to me. P.
Like the message I wrote on Ellie’s dragon drawing.
Teddy read it.
Then read it again.
He did not joke.
Neither did I.
I took a Polaroid of the drawing, then one of Teddy holding it.
Backup for the backup.
Very healthy sentence.
Ellie looked down at the drawing and said, “You have to put it somewhere you’ll find on Monday morning.”
Teddy nodded. “I know where.”
“And we meet at Cascades for lunch,” I said. “Monday. No excuses. If these don’t work, I’m coming to get you.”
Ellie nodded. “Cascades. Lunch.”
Teddy looked at both of us, then gave one small nod. “Cascades.”
Like saying it three times made it stronger.
Maybe it did.
He folded the drawing carefully.
Not too small.
Like it mattered.
Because it did.
Teddy left with the blue box folded in his pocket.
His dad’s treatment was paid for. Chen Print was safe. The money panic should have lifted.
I wanted that to make everything feel lighter.
It did.
Just not enough.
Ellie stayed.
For the next couple of hours, we did not talk about Clearwater. Or Candy. Or diary chaos. Or the fact that the whole room felt too empty without Bobby watching from the wall.
We just lay on my bed.
Clearwater prep was done.
Which did not make me feel prepared.
Friday, June 26, 2026
Show Day Buzz
Friday did not feel like the last day of school.
Officially, that was June 30, because apparently two days of assessment fluff still count. No classes though.
So this was the last real school day.
Basically school in costume, lying about being calm.
We still had normal classes. French. History. Science. Math. Very educational. Very structured. Very “please conjugate verbs while your brain is already backstage counting props.”
But the building had last-day energy under the Spellbound Harmony panic.
Lockers half-empty. Teachers pretending anyone was listening. People signing yearbooks in hallways like permanent marker could make the year behave itself.
Someone had written SUMMER across their knuckles and kept flashing it at people like a prophecy.
Very subtle.
The whole school felt done—but not dismissed.
Which was accurate, annoyingly.
People were talking about tickets before Homeroom. Someone had glitter on their sleeve and no idea how it got there, which felt deeply correct. Half the Drama crowd looked like they had slept three hours. The other half looked like they had not slept at all but were pretending caffeine counted as a personality.
Marilyn was everywhere without actually being everywhere.
People said her name in that show-night way. Marilyn’s solo. Marilyn’s costume. Marilyn nailed final dress. Marilyn’s Maple Crown people might be there. Title people.
Marilyn, Marilyn, Marilyn.
She looked polished when I saw her between classes. A little tired, maybe, but bright. Focused.
Candy seemed to be everywhere too, obviously. Not doing anything dramatic. Just existing with her orbit gathered around her, like the school had arranged itself for her convenience.
Ellie was still in that orbit.
Not trapped exactly.
Not free either.
She caught my eye for half a second, then looked away before anyone else noticed.
The whole thing made my skin feel too tight.
Teddy was quieter than usual too. Not obviously wrong. Just enough for my brain to keep noticing and then pretending it had not noticed.
Under all of it was Clearwater.
Friday night. After the show. Late arrival approved. Mom driving. Me and Ellie. Everything official and neat and ready, which somehow made it worse.
Because the day kept pretending it had one ending.
Curtain call.
Applause.
Relief.
But my actual Friday had another scene waiting after the audience went home.
Clearwater.
Transfusion.
Observation.
Scans.
The final bell rang, and the whole school shifted at once. People rushed for buses, lockers, costume bags, makeup kits, rides, dinner before call time.
Summer started for everyone else.
My Friday just changed costumes.
Curtain and Controlled Chaos
By evening call time, I was back at school with my prop list and the feeling that my life had started stacking disasters by appointment.
Call time was chaos with better lighting.
By the time I got backstage, the auditorium already sounded different. Not full yet, but filling. Parents talking. Programs rustling. Shoes squeaking on polished floor.
All very normal.
Which was rude.
Backstage was less normal.
Backstage was a habitat for panic.
Actors were warming up, fixing costumes, losing hairpins, finding hairpins, and asking if anyone had seen their water bottle while holding their water bottle. Miss Rivers moved through it all with her clipboard and a face that said, “I am calm because murder is frowned upon in education.”
Respect.
I went straight to the prop tables.
Scene order. Preset. Check. Backup. Check again.
Goblets, scrolls, ribbon, charm basket, fake flowers, carved wooden moon, lanterns, and the little painted box one actor kept calling “the thingy” despite it having a label directly underneath it.
The thingy survived because I am merciful.
Ellie was on visual support, which meant she somehow became six people while looking quieter than everyone else. She fixed a loose hem, touched up a scuffed edge, adjusted one of the forest flats, and checked the projection line where the gate glow was hitting too low.
Paint on her fingers.
Focus in her eyes.
Tiny crease between her eyebrows.
Very unfair. Very distracting. Terrible timing from my feelings, honestly.
The screen was tested once more before house lights went down.
Forest backdrop.
Sky shift.
Gate shimmer.
Everything worked.
I spotted Mom and Gramps out front, sitting together in that careful way adults sit when they are pretending not to have an entire conversation through posture.
Ellie’s dad was there too, with her sister beside him.
Very normal audience.
Very inconvenient stakes.
Then I found Teddy a few rows back, which was definitely the best place for him to be.
I waved. He waved back and gave a thumbs-up.
Not “everything is fine.”
More like “nothing is obviously on fire yet.”
At this point, I accept what I can get.
Then the show started.
I did not watch Act One properly. I watched it in pieces, the backstage version—Marilyn’s voice carrying through the curtains. An actor grabbing the correct prop for once. Ellie slipping past with safety pins. Miss Rivers mouthing lines from the wings like she could psychically drag them out of people.
And Marilyn was good.
Really good.
Better than rehearsals.
Even from the side, with cables and curtain edges and people breathing too loudly around me, she looked like she belonged at the center of it. Her big Act One scene landed. I could feel the audience lean in.
Then applause.
Real applause.
Not polite school applause.
Proud applause.
For a second, everyone backstage looked lighter.
Marilyn came offstage flushed and breathless, and people made room for her like she had earned it.
She had.
The interval announcement started out front, cheerful and harmless, saying refreshments were available and the student showcase would play on the screen.
The Poison File
The showcase started.
The first few videos were exactly what they were supposed to be.
Harmless.
Aggressively harmless.
Then the Media Studies presentations.
Harbor. Murals. Meridia Falls looking like a town where nothing bad had ever happened and everyone definitely remembered all missing people correctly. Then our sunset played, warm and golden, and a few people actually stopped talking to watch.
Tiny victory.
Teddy’s boardwalk video came next. The sea rolled wide and calm while gulls screamed like unpaid extras.
It looked peaceful.
Which was rude, honestly.
Then Candy’s project played.
Then another.
The room settled into interval noise. Parents talking with half an eye on the screen. Students checking phones. Someone laughing near the lobby doors. The smell of cookies and coffee drifting in like everything was safe and sponsored by the PTA.
Then another video started.
No project name. No class label. Just a clean black title card with Marilyn’s name on it.
For about two seconds, people thought it was part of her Maple Crown story.
It was.
Just not the version anyone expected.
The screen showed a hotel corridor first. Sponsor event carpet. A gold sign for the Maple Crown Teen of Canada Finalist Reception. Then Marilyn appeared in a short dress, slipping through a half-open suite door with a man.
One of the judges.
Not just a judge.
The head judge.
The caption made sure nobody missed that part.
Then the footage jumped. Security camera angle. Marilyn laughing too loudly in a private-looking room. Sponsor backdrop. Flowers. Gift bags. The head judge standing too close. A drink in her hand. His arm around her shoulders. A door closing before the clip cut away.
The video did not show enough.
That was the point.
The edit filled in the gaps for everyone.
The auditorium noise thinned.
Not stopped.
Thinned.
Like the whole room inhaled but forgot what came next.
My skin went cold.
The video kept going. Twenty seconds. Maybe thirty. Long enough to turn a person into a headline.
Marilyn looking compromised.
Marilyn looking guilty.
Marilyn looking like someone who had smiled and cheated her way into a crown she did not deserve.
And Marilyn and the head judge framed close enough for people to invent the ugliest story.
Then phones started buzzing.
One.
Then five.
Then everywhere.
People looked down. Looked back up. Looked down again.
MAPLE CROWN TEEN: HOW SHE REALLY WON
It was not just on the screen anymore—it was in everyone’s hands.
Ellie appeared beside me so fast I almost jumped. Her face had gone pale from the spill of light from backstage.
“Penny,” she whispered.
I knew what she meant.
Not all of it.
Enough.
The screen finally went black. Someone at the tech table must have killed it. Mr. Lefevre was moving fast, Miss Rivers faster, adults suddenly trying to become walls between the audience and what had already escaped into everyone’s hands.
Too late.
Phones kept buzzing.
Whispers turned sharp.
Marilyn’s name moved through the room in pieces.
Is that real?
Was she drunk?
That’s the Maple Crown Teen.
That’s how she won?
I knew she was fake.
OMG.
Someone near the aisle whispered another title that had landed on their phone.
MARILYN MOREAU AND THE HEAD JUDGE—PRIVATE FOOTAGE
Backstage, someone said Marilyn had seen it.
I did not see her at first.
I only saw Ellie’s hand curl into a fist at her side.
Teddy joined us at the side of the stage.
Across the auditorium, Candy stood near the back, half-turned toward Sally, phone in one hand.
Her expression was perfect.
Shocked enough.
Confused enough.
Not happy.
Too perfect.
Ellie said it first.
“Candy.”
I nodded.
Because of course.
We could not prove it.
Not then.
Maybe not ever.
But the cruelty had her fingerprints all over it.
It had landed exactly where it would hurt most: in public, in front of parents, teachers, classmates, and phones.
Not an accident.
Not chaos.
A trap with a title card.
Broken Applause
Marilyn finished the show.
I still do not know how.
Not cleanly. Not like the scandal bounced off her because talent makes a magic shield and everyone learned a valuable lesson about resilience.
Nope.
She finished it like someone walking across broken glass because stopping would mean everyone got to see the blood.
Backstage after the video was horrible in a very specific way.
Not screaming horror.
Worse.
Whispering horror.
Adults moving too quickly while trying to look professional. Miss Rivers talking to Mr. Lefevre in a sharp, low voice. Someone crying near the costume rack. Phones glowing in hands even after teachers told people to put them away.
Very effective command, obviously.
Teenagers are famously obedient when public ruin is available via link.
Marilyn was pale. Really pale. Her stage makeup suddenly looked like it belonged to someone else, and Ellie was near her with tissues, water, and that quiet steady thing she does when people are about to fall apart.
Marilyn kept saying it wasn’t like that.
She remembered pieces.
But not the story the video was telling.
She did not sound like someone making excuses.
She sounded terrified that nobody would believe her.
Which.
Yeah.
That part hit.
The audience clapped at the end, but it sounded wrong.
Split.
Careful.
Like applause had been injured too.
Candy clapped.
Of course she did.
Afterward, everything moved too fast.
Parents. Teachers. Students pretending not to stare while absolutely staring.
Marilyn surrounded by adults.
Miss Rivers looking like she wanted to protect her and had no idea where to put the shield.
Before Clearwater
Now, after all that, I’m at the Meridian, writing this while Mom talks to Gramps downstairs.
I can hear their voices through the floor. Not the words. Just the shape. Mom’s practical tone. Gramps’s lower one. Calm. Careful.
My Clearwater bag is by the door.
My new apartment keys are on my desk.
That still feels impossible.
This morning, they were a good thing. A beautiful thing. A Gramps thing. A summer thing.
Now they are sitting next to my diary like proof that safety and danger can apparently share a surface.
It seems like an impossible end to the week.
Chen Print is saved.
Marilyn is ruined.
Ellie is waiting for us to pick her up so we can go to Clearwater.
I have keys to a place that feels like mine and not mine.
Ellie and I have the dragon drawing.
Teddy has his blue box.
I have letters, packed evidence, and a room that looks too neat because Bobby is sleeping in the window seat.
And I had the memory of us hanging in frames, which is not exactly the kind of mental image you want before a medical weekend.
“Soon” is packed away with everything else now.
Which is not the same as answered.
Maybe it meant tonight: the file, the phones, Marilyn.
Or maybe it means Clearwater.
I hate that I do not know.
I hate that I have to close this diary, store it away, and get in Mom’s car with it still open inside my head.
Mom just called up.
Time to go.
Show night is over.
Clearwater is not.
CONTINUED IN:
Penny’s Diary - Week 26: Reset Rules, New Keys, and a Meeting at Sunset - Arriving in your inbox on July 2, 2026
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