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, January 24, 2026
Breakfast of Mild Panic
The creepy cave dream was back, and this time I decided to level up. I went deeper into the cave, following that same shaft of light, and stumbled onto a bizarre black rock—shiny and reflective, like a sideways, eye-shaped mirror.
Cracked and jagged, it shimmered just enough to look alive. Seriously, dreams can get weirder than a cat wearing a sombrero.
And then it got worse.
When I looked into the mirror-like surface, it screamed back at me—my own scream.
And that’s always what wakes me up, scared out of my mind. Who needs this kind of horror movie in their sleep?
Anyway, here’s the kicker. In the middle of all that nightmare chaos, a tiny memory surfaced. I vaguely remembered skimming the diaries for anything about The London Antiquarian and spotting a line where younger me mentioned something called an “eye mirror.” How the hell did that memory even manage to claw its way through all the madness? I can’t remember the blast itself, but I can remember reading it—which somehow makes it even creepier.
The eye mirror, the red eye stamp… they keep showing up in places that shouldn’t connect. And I honestly don’t know what to do with that.
Gramps made pancakes; I pushed them around like they were a puzzle I could solve if I stared hard enough. I told him I’m just tired. Not a lie—just not the whole truth.
Clearwater’s next weekend, and now my dreams are pitching props at me. Eye mirrors, echoes, and me screaming back at myself? Love that for me.
Maybe that’s why my brain keeps looping it—like it’s trying to remind me of something I haven’t caught up to yet.
Brain Fog and Missing Partners
By afternoon, I was reorganizing my desk at the Meridian for the third time, like that would somehow organize my brain. I wrote two words on a Post-it note—“Eye Mirror”—and stuck it on my bulletin board. It stared back at me like it knew more than I did.
Maybe I should tell Teddy about these dreams—minus the cute boy one—before they drive me completely insane.
And speaking of Teddy, we’d planned another diary deep dive for this afternoon, but the print shop had other ideas—for a change. More chaos, more orders—classic. I thought about tackling it solo, but the second I spread the diaries across my bed, my stomach twisted. I couldn’t face the memory blasts and migraines alone today. Not when even my dreams were starting to mess with me.
Sunday, January 25, 2026
Salt Air and Secrets
I tried the adult thing after breakfast—hydration, sunlight, and a walk with Gramps down by South Bay. He swears sea air “clears the head,” but honestly, the only thing it cleared was my ability to feel my face. The wind was brutal, the kind that makes your eyes water so much you can pretend it’s not tears. Convenient, really.
Gramps pointed out the fishing boats coming in, talking about how the town’s changing, how everything feels quieter these days. I nodded along, pretending I wasn’t watching the water like it might whisper secrets if I stared long enough. The waves looked different—colder, heavier. Or maybe that’s just me projecting my Clearwater anxiety onto the Atlantic. Wouldn’t be the first time.
Echoes in the Quiet
After lunch I caved and texted Teddy.
Me: Couldn’t face the diaries on my own. Need my sidekick. Teddy: I always thought you were my sidekick. Me: In your dreams. Speaking of dreams—I’ve been having a few weird ones. Need to spill. Teddy: That tracks. Your life’s basically an ARG now. Me: I want a refund. Teddy: Dream Analysis one oh one at lunch tomorrow.
He always knows how to make me laugh, even when my brain feels like it’s glitching.
Instead of poking the diary hornet’s nest, I put on The Clash and tried to zone out. Didn’t work. My brain wouldn’t stop looping between dream echoes and Clearwater dread. Friday’s circled red X on the calendar felt more like a warning label than a date. The thought of those hospital lights, the transfusion buzz, the quiet hum of machines—it all made my skin crawl.
By ten I’d given up pretending to relax and crashed early. I must’ve been asleep an hour before jolting awake, heart hammering. I swear I heard that echoing scream again—not in my head, but in the room.
I froze, listening. The sound came again, low and metallic.
The heating pipes. Definitely the heating pipes…
Probably.
Monday, January 26, 2026
Veins and Aftershocks
At lunch, I finally spilled to Teddy about the cave dreams—especially the newest one with the sideways, eye-shaped mirror. His eyes went wide, which is saying something for someone who’s seen me trip over flat ground. Our master plan? Head to the Meridian after school and hunt for any diary entries about my younger self having weird dreams. Maybe she was getting the same freaky reruns. If we were lucky, we could crack this mystery and end the nightly horror franchise once and for all.
We met up at the Meridian right after school and dug in. An hour later, we finally hit the jackpot. Not dreams—memories. Real events. It was right there in the first diary from 2016. And get this: there was a crayon drawing of that creepy mirror, shaped exactly like an eye. Instant spine chills. I swear, younger me had a flair for the dramatic.
Then came the entry itself:
“They put me in the cave again with the scary eye, the magic mirror. They made me stare at it, and then it screamed back at me.”
Reading it was like flipping a switch in my brain. Boom—memory blast. Images, sensations, panic. It wasn’t just a dream; it was something I’d lived through and forgotten. Like my subconscious had been replaying the trailer for a movie I wasn’t ready to watch.
And then things got really fun. Teddy suddenly jumped up, eyes wide, pointing at me like I’d just sprouted supervillain upgrades. Apparently, thin black veins were crawling under my skin around my eyes like someone was sketching with a leaky pen. That’s when we both realized—he’d never actually seen a memory blast happen in real time. Hearing about it was one thing. Watching ink-lines crawl across my face? Whole different level of nightmare.
I didn’t feel them, didn’t see them—just his freaked-out face and frantic phone camera. But when he showed me the photo? Nothing. Totally normal. Every picture, every video—blank. Like something was editing out the evidence in real time.
But even if my memories are scrambled, everyone else’s are fine. Right?
It seems the veins show up every time a memory blast hits—we just didn’t realize it until today. They fade as fast as they appear, leaving no trace behind. Every time we tried to capture proof, it vanished—just like that cursed bookstore name.
So yeah. The universe is hiding something big.
But I’m not backing down. Not now.
Bring it on.
Tuesday, January 27, 2026
Snails and Conspiracies
Ugh. The day dragged on like a snail on a sloth’s back. First, the torture of Gym with Miss Moore, and then History with Mr. Jefferson—normally, I can at least stay awake for his class, but today? Nope. I couldn’t focus on anything. History just felt like background noise, and my brain was throwing a party, and I definitely wasn’t invited.
To make things worse, I had to deal with Ellie Horton sitting next to me. Sure, she looks all sweet and harmless, but don’t be fooled—the girl’s got Candy Gang connections. I’m not usually one for conspiracy theories, but maybe Teddy’s phone-privacy paranoia is rubbing off on me.
When that glorious bell finally rang, it was like the heavens opened and a choir started singing the Hallelujah chorus. Me and Teddy didn’t waste a second—we headed straight to the Meridian. We had a mission, and nothing was gonna stop us from following the thread.
Pressure Points
I dived headfirst into a diary frenzy. Detective mode: activated. Teddy sat nearby, pretending to review pages but really watching me. I was testing my limits, braving the headaches just to see how far I could go before everything blurred. Every memory blast that hit, I checked my reflection. The mirror never lied—those black veins slithered up my cheeks like some avant-garde skincare nightmare.
I kept insisting I was fine, brushing off Teddy every time he asked if I needed a break. (Keyword: pretended.) But the second the heat under my skin started to build—like my blood was about to boil—I saw Teddy tense up. And that’s when it hit me: maybe pushing through wasn’t proving anything except how close I was getting to the edge.
Time to stop. For now, anyway.
Cracks in the Timeline
Teddy had to head home for dinner, but I stayed behind, hungry for answers. My skin had finally cooled down from the whole vein-situation, but that familiar migraine lurking-in-the-wings feeling was still there, waiting for its cue.
And that’s when it hit me—hard.
The Clearwater program Mom signed me up for to treat and monitor my ESD started in January 2017, two months after the car accident that took Dad and Sean.
But the diaries? They started a whole year earlier, in 2016—and they had entries saying I was already going to Clearwater for the same so-called “observations.”
Which doesn’t make sense.
Unless those visits weren’t treatment yet. Unless they were watching me. Assessing. Deciding.
And not just me.
Sean was mentioned too.
Same place. Same visits. Same word—observations.
That didn’t mean he had ESD. Not necessarily.
But it did mean Clearwater was paying attention to us long before anyone ever said there was something wrong with me.
And if that was true… then everything Mom ever told me about Clearwater had gaps in it.
Big ones.
And Gramps—he has to know more than he’s saying. He just has to.
My stomach dropped. I grabbed my phone, hands shaking, and called Teddy. He didn’t say much—just that low hum he does when his brain’s connecting dots faster than mine ever could.
We both knew it then.
This thing goes way deeper than either of us thought.
Before we hung up, we locked in Thursday evening for Operation Letter 2.0—a brand-new letter to leave on my desk, just like younger me used to. If her plan worked once, maybe it can again.
We just have to make sure this one doesn’t get moved while I’m away.
Wednesday, January 28, 2026
Distraction Mode: Activated
Ah, the eternal rollercoaster of high school continues. After surviving some wild experiments in Science with Mr. Keeler that made my brain feel like it had done a thousand somersaults, I was back in the magical realm of folklore and witches in Drama with Miss Rivers.
Today—thankfully—no team-ups with the Art class crew. Nope, it was all about assembling the dream team of technical wizards. A little bonding session, if you will.
As we gathered around, I couldn’t help noticing how many faces I sort of knew but had never actually talked to. High school is basically a collection of parallel universes that nod at each other in the hallway. We were all there with one goal: make this chaotic production actually happen.
But no matter how hard I tried to focus on prop lists and lighting cues, my brain kept replaying last night’s revelations on loop. If the diaries are right, I was going to Clearwater a whole year before I thought.
And not just me.
Sean was there too.
My subconscious is a jukebox on shuffle, and I can’t find the off button.
Revelation Whiplash
Lunchtime rolled in, and the full force of the revelation hit me like a runaway train. All morning I’d been replaying those chaotic diary pages in my head, squinting for meaning in scribbles and half-thoughts. By the time I sat down with my lunch, the frustration finally boiled over.
Ugh, why couldn’t younger me write more clearly in those freaking diaries? Seriously, half of it felt like crayon hieroglyphics instead of actual sentences.
Thankfully, Teddy swooped in before I spiraled too hard. He reminded me that I was just a kid back then—confused, scared, and probably doing the best I could. Fine. Fair point. Still annoying.
But the more I thought about it, the more I questioned everything Mom ever told me about Clearwater. Doubt was creeping in like an uninvited guest, and it felt like the truth was slipping out of reach every time I tried to grab it.
Teddy, being Teddy, managed to crack a joke about me talking about myself in the third person, like some celebrity having a meltdown. It actually helped. We raided some M&Ms and tried coming up with names for mini-me. We eventually settled on “Younger Penny.” Groundbreaking stuff, I know.
Then Teddy asked if I had any old photos from my Younger Penny days. Mom’s stash is still off-limits—too many memories bundled up in those boxes—but Gramps keeps a whole treasure trove downstairs in the Meridian basement. I sneak down there sometimes when I need a piece of Dad or Sean. Those photos always feel like tiny time machines.
Basement Archaeology
After school, me and Teddy made a beeline for the Meridian. If Younger Penny had answers hiding anywhere, it was going to be in Gramps’s basement treasure trove. The place always smells like popcorn dust and nostalgia—basically my natural habitat.
I went digging through a stack of boxes and immediately proved I have the coordination of a stunned giraffe. One wrong move and a pile of Polaroids hit the floor. The one that landed face-up? A shot of Dad, Sean, and me flying a kite in Meridia Park. Instant emotional sucker punch. I pretended I had dust in my eye. Very convincing.
Gramps used to carry his Polaroid everywhere when I was little—snapping away like he was the town’s unofficial photographer. Birthdays, walks, grocery-store trips—everything. If something existed for more than five minutes, Gramps probably took a picture of it.
Teddy helped me gather the photos, joking that Gramps must’ve single-handedly kept the Polaroid company alive. Honestly? Probably true. We found old film packs, then his vintage camera, which Teddy examined like it had been dropped by aliens. I loaded some film and snapped a goofy selfie of us just to prove it still worked. Classic.
We kept digging, and that’s when things got… theatrical. Teddy tried lifting this massive box off a shelf, and between the two of us, we nearly caused a basement avalanche. I tripped—obviously—and sent a bunch of old white doors crashing everywhere. Yes, Gramps collects doors. No, I don’t know why. We put everything back before the basement spirits cursed us.
Then we opened the big box.
And there they were.
The green books.
The exact same kind Younger Penny used for her diaries.
My stomach flipped. Suddenly all that joking about Younger Penny didn’t feel so funny anymore. She’d been scribbling in books like these long before I even realized life came with plot twists—and now they were staring at me like they’d been waiting.
The plot doesn’t just thicken.
It curdles.
Hot Chocolate and Hidden History
Teddy headed home, and a few minutes later Gramps came through the door looking wiped from another round of restaurant-conversion talks. I stuck around and made us hot chocolate because it’s the one thing I can reliably get right—and tired-Gramps is impossible to say no to.
While he ran through the designer’s latest ideas—and all the old cinema stuff he refuses to let go of—I saw my opening. I mentioned me and Teddy finding his ancient Polaroid camera in the basement. He shrugged and said I could try it out if it even still worked, so I showed him the selfie. Instant grin. Mission accomplished.
We sat for a while, and it hit me how many memories live in that place. Dad. Sean. Gran. All those little moments that sneak up on you when you’re not ready. I swallowed it down and stayed on task.
I told him we’d also found a stack of old green books in the basement with a name stamped inside: The London—
He finished it without blinking. The London Antiquarian. Just rolled off his tongue like it was no big deal. He said it was some old bookstore in London and they’d been tossing out boxes of them while he was visiting family. And of course Gramps, champion of lost objects, couldn’t resist.
I joked about how heavy his suitcase must’ve been, and he laughed and said they’d shipped the rest to him. That man could probably fill a museum with the things he refuses to throw away.
So I asked if I could borrow one of the books. He didn’t even hesitate—just handed me the green light like it was the easiest request in the world. He even reminded me there were more boxes of Polaroid film downstairs.
A whole basement full of clues, and Gramps doesn’t even know he’s been archiving the plot for us.
Diary Upgrade
With our hot chocolates fully savored, I headed for the basement on a mission. Time to get my hands on one of those green notebooks and make it official. I grabbed one that looked sturdy enough and copied every entry from my flowery diary into its pages. Had to stay true to Younger Penny’s vibe, right?
The whole time, this little fizz of nerves sat in my stomach—like I was poking a sleeping bear. These notebooks weren’t just paper. They were… charged. Time capsules with teeth. Holding one felt a bit like holding a tiny bomb made of memories.
But I wasn’t about to chicken out. If this was my sidekick now, then fine. It was sticking with me from here on out. My own secret weapon—even if I wasn’t totally convinced it wouldn’t bite.
Teddy said the diaries were basically my River Song journal—future and past Penny leaving notes for whichever version of me needed them most.
And honestly? Fair point.
Also, yes, I’m surprised I know who River Song is. That’s what happens when your best friend mainlines Doctor Who lore at you like it’s oxygen.
Testing the Waters
Once I finished copying everything over, I couldn’t help flipping back to the very first page of my new diary—the one where I ranted about Candy and her ketchup balloon disaster. Curiosity won (as usual), and I had to test whether my fresh entries could trigger the same memory blasts that Younger Penny’s did.
Answer: yep. Ten out of ten. Full sensory ketchup flashback. Not my best moment.
Which means the magic—or whatever this is—doesn’t belong only to the old diaries. It follows the writing. My writing. Kind of cool. Kind of terrifying. Maybe both.
This diary-writing thing is starting to feel weirdly natural now, even with the headache landmines baked in. But every so often, I get this little twist in my stomach, like I’m poking at something I’m not supposed to. Maybe it’s just the freaky mix of time-tampered memories and reality gaps. Maybe it’s because Younger Penny clearly wasn’t supposed to keep a diary, and I’m doing it too.
Whatever it is, it’s not stopping me.
Not now. Not when I’m finally getting somewhere.
Memory Loopholes
Skating home from the Meridian, I was in my own little bubble—wind, streetlights, brain on low power mode—when a thought hit me so hard I actually slowed down.
Gramps remembered the name.
Not once. Not kinda-sorta. He said The London Antiquarian like it was nothing. Meanwhile Teddy—literal walking encyclopedia Teddy—can’t hold onto that name for more than two seconds before it vanishes like a bad Snapchat.
And Gramps? Totally unaffected.
I kept rolling, but my brain was suddenly on high alert. Why him? Why can he remember it when nobody else can? What makes him different?
I don’t have the answers yet, but the question is buzzing under my skin like a loose wire.
One thing’s for sure: this isn’t random.
And it isn’t done with me.
Bring it on.
Thursday, January 29, 2026
Clearwater Prep Mode
The Clearwater countdown was bouncing around my brain all day. Not even kickass Media Studies could distract me. Teddy was coming to the Meridian tonight to help me prep because this whole memory-loss situation stopped being a fun sci-fi theory and became a very real, very terrifying problem.
While I waited for him, I sat at my desk and tore a page out of the back of my new diary. If this paper worked for Younger Penny, then I guess I should trust it too. I started handwriting the letter… but halfway through the first sentence, something felt wrong. Like the words weren’t supposed to look like that.
Then it hit me—Younger Penny typed her letter.
What if that wasn’t random? What if the typewriter mattered?
My throat tightened. Not because of the pressure—because of the promise.
Dust Bunny Treasure Hunt
Teddy showed up shaking glitter out of his hair—courtesy of Kelly, who’d decided today was “craft tornado day.” Squirt runs on pure chaos and a dream. I dodged the glitter storm while telling him my typewriter theory, expecting at least one sarcastic eyebrow raise, but he just nodded and said, “Maybe it’s part of the trigger—like muscle memory for your brain.”
So we asked Gramps if he had a typewriter. He grumbled something about “the glory days of real letters” and told us to check the basement.
Cue the Great Dust Bunny Expedition 2.0.
We dug around until we found it shoved inside a box under old cinema posters—a heavy black iron beast with faded keys and a ribbon that smelled like old ink and time travel. Gramps said I used to play with it when I was little, which is hilarious because I have zero actual memory of that.
Zilch.
Typewriter Truth Bomb
We hauled the typewriter upstairs and set it on my desk. Tucked inside the case was a tiny bundle wrapped in a scrap of paper—the same paper as the diaries.
I unwrapped it, and my breath actually hitched.
Inside was a little red eye stamp.
The same symbol from the letter.
The same one Younger Penny kept using in the diaries.
And the paper wrapping?
Covered in my name typed again and again, like some kind of protective spell.
It felt like finding hidden treasure—weird, slightly creepy treasure, but still treasure.
I ripped another page from my diary and started typing. The clack-clack-clack echoed through my room—sharp, rhythmic, almost hypnotic. Like I was syncing up with something old, something buried.
Halfway through, Teddy pointed. “The P key,” he said. “It’s bent.”
He was right. Every “P” looked like it was pecking the next letter. A tiny iron woodpecker.
And when we checked the letter from Younger Penny—the same woodpecker P was right there. Same on the typed sheet inside the case.
Same typewriter.
Same stamp.
Same message echoing across time.
Teddy called it “proof of continuity.”
I called it freaky as hell.
But I kept typing anyway.
Operation Letter 2.0
The letter’s finished now—folded, sealed, stamped with that little red eye, and tucked inside an envelope we made from a couple of diary pages. Teddy found an envelope template online and walked me through how to fold it properly. He said if Younger Penny crafted hers by hand, then mine should match. And honestly? The bent P, the red eye, the whole thing… it felt like a signature. A breadcrumb. A reminder that no matter what Clearwater does to my memories, some part of me always finds her way back.
Then Teddy came up with a genius upgrade:
Make a second copy. A backup. And mail it back to me.
So I typed another one, gave it the same red-eye stamp, and made another envelope. Honestly, it felt smart—mailing a backup. If my memory gets scrambled and the letter on my desk gets moved, then a mailed letter should be waiting for me when I get back from Clearwater, right?
Just like that, Operation Letter 2.0 was alive.
If Younger Penny could leave a trail through time… then maybe I can too.
Not exactly spy-level stuff, but close enough for Penny Summers.
Friday, January 30, 2026
Clearwater Dread Vibes
I woke up this morning feeling like I was about to walk straight into a horror movie marathon—and not the fun kind. Today was Clearwater day, and something about it felt different in the worst possible way. My heart was pounding like it was trying to file an official complaint.
Reality changing, memories shifting, me losing pieces of myself… yeah, that lovely cocktail sat heavy in my chest. And the more I thought about it, the more the whole thing made my stomach twist.
Was I going to come back as the same Penny?
With the same memories?
The same brain?
Last night’s letter project with Teddy kept replaying in my head—our best shot at holding on to myself if things went sideways. But even that didn’t stop the panic from creeping in.
I kept staring at the clock, wishing it would freeze. No such luck. Eventually I had to pull myself together, grab my backpack, and get ready for school.
Before heading out, I slipped the backup envelope into my hoodie pocket—my precious “Please Don’t Let Me Lose My Mind” letter. Teddy made me write “Priority” across the top, not for the post office, but to remind me which service to ask for so I wouldn’t panic and forget at the counter. Classic Teddy.
So the plan is: after school, I’m walking straight into the post office and mailing it in person. No chances, no delays, no mailbox roulette. Just me, the envelope, and a clerk who hopefully won’t wonder why a sixteen-year-old looks like she’s mailing her soul.
The desk copy is waiting back at the Meridian—my own version of Younger Penny’s system. Leave it somewhere future me will definitely look. But now that we know those letters don’t always stay put… having a mailed backup feels like the smartest thing I’ve ever done.
If everything works the way it’s supposed to, the letter will be waiting at the Meridian by tomorrow morning—one way or another—my own breadcrumb trail back to myself.
Pre-Clearwater Panic
Lunchtime rolled in, and Teddy showed up like the emotional support human he always is. He had this unshakable confidence that our double-diary-letter plan was going to keep me from getting smacked with any reality whiplash after Clearwater. And yeah, I want to believe that… but my brain was already chewing on worst-case scenarios like a raccoon going through the trash cans.
He admitted he was scared too—about me coming home changed in some way he couldn’t predict. Like he wouldn’t know how to help me. Like maybe I’d come back and the puzzle pieces wouldn’t fit the same.
But he still believed—really believed—that the diary letters would work.
He promised that no matter what this Clearwater visit did to my head, he’d be here to walk me through every missing piece, every weird detail, every moment we’ve lived through this month.
And because he is the most Teddy person to ever Teddy, he’d already built us another backup plan.
If I didn’t drag him to the Meridian by Tuesday night yelling about mysterious diaries like a lunatic, he’d switch straight into History-Lesson Mode—sit me down, start from the beginning, and talk me through everything step by step. A whole crash course in “What Penny Forgot.”
It was so very Teddy—practical, loyal, and absolutely convinced he’d stay outside whatever storm was coming for me.
I wanted to tell him I wasn’t worried about the facts. I was worried about losing us—the version of our friendship that understood all this insanity together.
But instead, I just nodded, because if Teddy could have that much faith, maybe I could borrow a little.
And honestly? Having him in my corner made the whole Clearwater thing feel… not safe, exactly, but survivable.
Countdown Nerves
After leaving the letter at the post office—my tiny lifeline officially out in the world—skating home felt like riding a rocket. Wind in my face, heart punching at my ribs, the whole nine yards. I was a girl on a mission: grab my Clearwater bag, swing by the Meridian, and say bye to Gramps. Couldn’t leave without that.
Mom was out with her friends, probably conquering another café like the latte-powered queen she is. Before heading back out, I fired her a quick text asking to pick me up from the Meridian later. She’d done it a million times before—drop me off for my observation weekend, drive off to Halifax, repeat. A weird little routine we perfected without ever talking about it.
As I zipped up my bag, all I could think was how different this trip felt. Like every second before Clearwater suddenly mattered more than it ever had.
Edge of the Unknown
Sitting on my bed, I kept staring at my Clearwater bag like it was going to get up and walk away. I’d been running through the same checklist on my way to the Meridian—like every item was some tiny anchor trying to hold me in place.
letter left on my desk
backup letter mailed
Teddy fully briefed and ready to drag me back to reality if things go sideways
The list made me feel better… for all of two seconds.
The closer it got to pick-up time, the more my stomach twisted. What if this was the last time I wrote in my diary as me? What if I came back and everything felt… wrong? The thought messed with my heartbeat in a way no Gym class ever could.
I pulled out the Polaroid selfie from the other night—me and Teddy grinning like two idiots in the basement—and pinned it to my bulletin board, right next to the yellow Post-it note that says “Eye Mirror.” It felt right seeing it there in the open, even if a tiny part of me hated how exposed it looked.
Mom would be here any minute, so once I finish writing this, I’m going to stamp this entry with the little red eye—just like Younger Penny always did—and then tuck the diary with its green-book cousins behind the AC vent, the safest hiding place I have. I’ll slide my old flowery diary in beside them too, a reminder of where this whole wild journey actually started.
I stood there for a beat, just breathing, pretending I wasn’t shaking.
Next stop: Clearwater.
Next chapter: unknown.
Catch you on the flip side, diary.
And yeah… fingers crossed.
CONTINUED IN:
Penny’s Diary - Week 5: Reset Reality, Lightning Veins, and Proof at Last - Arriving in your inbox on February 5, 2026
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