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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Monday, March 2, 2026
Blank Space
I woke up feeling… fine.
Not groggy.
Not heavy.
Not scrambled.
Just awake.
That alone should’ve been comforting, but instead it felt wrong—like waking up mid-sentence and realizing you missed the first half.
I lay there staring at the ceiling, waiting for something to kick in. A thought. A worry. The usual background noise that comes with being me.
Nothing showed up.
My head felt quiet in a way I couldn’t explain yet. Not peaceful. Just… blank. Like my brain had skipped a step and didn’t bother telling me.
That’s when the unease started.
Because even without knowing what I was forgetting, I knew I was forgetting something. Something important enough that my body noticed before my thoughts did.
I turned my head toward the desk.
There were two envelopes sitting there.
Plain. Identical.
My name written neatly across the front of both.
I must have missed them when I got back from Clearwater last night.
I didn’t remember putting them there before I left.
And whatever part of me had been waiting for a clue went completely still.
Reality Reboot Aftershock
I opened one of the envelopes.
The letter inside was short. Direct. Typed like it assumed I wouldn’t have time to panic—which felt rude, but accurate.
I followed the instructions.
And the moment I pulled the first book out from behind the AC vent and touched the old paper, everything came rushing back at once.
Not in order.
Not neatly.
Ellie’s dragon.
Candy cutting in.
Cascades and hot chocolate.
Teddy was sitting on my bed, believing me when I needed him to.
Clearwater.
The diaries.
The altered memory notebook. The index.
The rules.
My hands hit the edge of the desk before my knees gave out.
As the older memories flooded back, they came in powerful bursts and faded just as fast as before.
I breathed the way the letter clearly expected me to breathe—slow, counted, like someone had planned for this exact moment.
Okay.
The relief came first.
I wasn’t imagining it.
I wasn’t broken.
There was a reason my head had felt wrong.
I eased my current diary fully free and held it against my chest.
The Polaroids were still there.
Ellie’s note was still tucked between the pages.
Proof survived.
That’s when I checked everything else.
The emailed video—gone.
The sent copy gone too.
I pulled up my phone.
The video I’d recorded—me, carefully reading the letter—wasn’t there. Not deleted. Just… never existed.
I sat back slowly, the shape of it settling in.
That backup failed.
But the others held.
The diary held.
The Polaroids held.
The index and the altered memory notebook held.
Everything outside those London Antiquarian pages failed.
The relief shifted—changed shape.
Then came the part that hurt.
Ellie still existed—but the Ellie who knew me didn’t remember any of it.
The almosts.
The drawings.
The quiet understanding that had been building between us.
Gone.
Teddy was reset too. I could feel that immediately. That part hurt less. Teddy would come back. We’d planned for that. I had systems. Proof.
Ellie was different.
Proof survived.
But feelings didn’t.
I pressed the diary closer and let that land.
I’m back.
I remember.
But today starts with loss instead of discovery.
And I don’t get to pretend that doesn’t matter.
Familiar Faces, Missing Context
Math should’ve annoyed me.
It didn’t.
That was the first red flag.
I sat there staring at the board while Mr. Matheson did his usual number sermon, and all I could think about was how quiet my head felt. Not calm. Not peaceful. Just… empty in places that shouldn’t be empty.
I caught Teddy’s eye across the room.
He smiled. Gave me the usual nod. Normal. Easy.
Nothing behind it to say we were in this together anymore.
I waited for the warmth to kick in. The shorthand. The us of it.
It didn’t.
I swallowed and looked back at my notes, already knowing the truth—he was reset. Blank slate. No memory of letters or diaries or promises made in advance.
Okay.
That one, at least, I’d planned for.
Same Team, Different Distance
Media Studies hit harder.
Same group. Same table. Same everything.
Ellie sat across from me, twisting her pen between her fingers—something I’d noticed she does when she’s nervous. She glanced up once, smiled politely, and went back to her notebook.
Polite.
That was new.
No spark. No flicker of recognition. No shared something hovering between us. Just classmates working on a project.
My chest did that tight thing again, but I kept my face neutral and focused on our project. Candy hovered nearby—not obvious enough to draw attention, just close enough to be felt.
Ellie didn’t draw in her notebook.
No dragons.
That hurt more than I expected.
Holding Pattern, Pretend Normal
Lunch was loud, chaotic, and aggressively normal.
Teddy talked at me about something Super Mario-related, hands moving, voice animated. I nodded in the right places, laughed when it felt expected, filed away the sound of him for later—when I’d have to explain everything again.
Ellie sat with Candy and the rest of them, laughing at something I couldn’t hear.
English passed in a blur. Drama too.
I wrote notes. I listened. I answered when called on.
I did okay.
Which is not how you want to be doing on a day like this.
By the final bell, I was exhausted in that specific way that comes from pretending nothing’s wrong when everything is.
I survived the first school reset day.
Barely.
Tuesday, March 3, 2026
Memory Patchwork Mode
I meant to call Teddy last night.
That was the plan. Get him over to the Meridian, sit him down, show him the letter, the diaries, the Polaroids. Bring him back into the loop before my brain turned into soup.
Instead, I sat on my bed and woke upeight hours later, still wearing my jacket and boots.
Same clothes.
Phone dead.
Apparently my body decided we were done for the day without consulting me.
I changed, splashed water on my face, and made myself not think about what that kind of crash usually means. Thinking about it wouldn’t help. Writing might.
So I pulled out the notebook.
Not the diary.
The other one.
The one for altered memories.
I started filling in the blanks.
Dates. Places. People.
I wrote down what I remembered now versus what I knew had happened before the reset. Marked the gaps. Circled names that felt important.
It was weird, documenting my own life like evidence.
Detached.
Clinical.
Necessary.
Even Ellie showed up in my altered memories.
I stood next to her in line at Cascades, and there was nothing between us—no spark, no secret look, nothing. Writing that down hurt. Especially now that my real memories and real feelings were back.
By the time I was done, the notebook looked like a crime board without the string—messy, uneven, but holding together through sheer stubbornness.
Almost immediately, the altered memories started to blur. Details slipping. Edges softening. Like they’d only been hanging on until I wrote them down.
I checked the time and realized I was going to be late if I didn’t move.
I closed the notebook carefully.
At least now I had a record of what something—or someone—wants me to believe happened last month.
School Like Nothing Happened
The hallways were loud. Lockers slammed. Someone laughed too hard near the stairs.
The day kept moving like nothing had changed, which felt rude, honestly.
Gym came first.
Running laps. Stretching. Everyone pretending their bodies weren’t already tired. I went through the motions and tried not to think about how disconnected I felt from myself—like I was watching my own movements half a second late.
History was worse.
Ellie sat next to me.
Close enough to feel familiar. Not close enough to mean anything.
I said hi. She said hi back. Polite. Pleasant. Nothing wrong with it—except that it stopped there.
I tried one comment about the assignment. She nodded, answered, smiled briefly.
Candy sat a few rows up, sending looks sharp enough to cut glass. After that, Ellie stayed careful. Measured. Like every word had to pass a risk assessment first.
She didn’t draw in her notebook.
No dragons.
I noticed immediately.
And I hated that I noticed.
Almost Normal
Lunch blurred past. Noise. Trays. People talking about things that still made sense to them.
French came after.
Vocabulary drills. Verb conjugations. Ellie two rows ahead of me this time. Candy still there. The distance somehow worse.
By the time Media Studies rolled around, I was already worn thin.
Same team.
Same table.
Same shared document open on the screen.
We talked deadlines. Sources. Who was covering what section. Normal. Efficient. Classmate stuff.
We pulled up the storyboard for the video project—Shadow Ridge, Hellgate Forest, the slow 360-degree sweep we’d planned around sunset. Ellie leaned in to point at the screen, talking through light angles and pacing. She always sounds more sure of herself when she’s talking visuals.
And then—for half a second—she laughed.
Not the careful one.
Not the polite version.
A real laugh. Unfiltered. The kind that lifts before it can be stopped.
Candy’s head snapped toward her immediately.
Ellie caught herself. The laugh vanished, replaced by a quick apology and a return to typing, shoulders tightening like she’d tripped a wire.
We kept working.
But I held onto that sound for the rest of the period like contraband.
By the final bell, I was exhausted in that specific way that comes from acting normal when your internal timeline is out of sync.
Ellie packed up her bag, said a casual “see you tomorrow,” and walked away.
I watched her go, knowing I couldn’t miss someone who technically hadn’t left.
And somehow, that hurt worse.
Deferred Maintenance
Tonight was supposed to be about Teddy.
I’d lined it up. Invited him over. Rehearsed the hard parts in my head.
The plan was simple.
Get him to the Meridian, sit him down, do the letter–diary–Polaroid routine again. Rip the bandage off before it had time to fuse back on.
I even drafted the speech in my head. Twice.
Instead, after dinner with Gramps, I was sitting on my bed when my phone buzzed.
Teddy: Print shop’s a mess tonight. Dad’s not feeling great. Rain check?
I stared at the message longer than necessary.
Of course it was the print shop. It’s always the print shop when the universe needs plausible deniability.
I typed back before I could talk myself out of it.
Me: We’ll catch up tomorrow. Hope your dad’s okay.
I told myself it was fine. One more night wouldn’t change anything. I’d already survived the reset. I had the notebook. I had the diaries. I had proof stacked neatly where it belonged.
Still, the quiet felt heavier without him here.
I organized my desk instead. Straightened papers. Re-checked that everything was hidden. Re-read the first few pages of the altered memories notebook just to make sure my own handwriting still made sense.
It did.
That was comforting. In a bleak, administrative way.
I skated home on autopilot, the day finally catching up to me.
Tomorrow, I’d explain everything to Teddy again.
Tomorrow, I’d make sure someone else remembered the right version of me.
Tonight, I just needed to stay intact.
Wednesday, March 4, 2026
Looped on One Thing
School happened.
I know that because I was there. I moved from class to class. Sat in the right seats. Wrote things down. Answered when teachers called on me.
But all I could really think about was bringing Teddy back into the loop.
I needed him back. Not eventually. Not later. Today.
Science came first. Lab benches. Safety goggles. A worksheet I finished on muscle memory alone. My hand moved while my brain stayed stuck rehearsing the same conversation on repeat.
Drama should’ve anchored me. It usually does. Instead, I stayed half a beat behind myself—listening, watching, waiting for the grounding to kick in. It never did.
Lunch was the pause point.
I found Teddy near the vending machines and checked—casually, like this wasn’t the only thing holding my day together—that he was still coming over tonight. He clocked the tension anyway. He always does.
I said it was just weird stuff.
Which was technically true.
After that, the day slipped back into fast-forward.
Math blurred past. Numbers, equations, Mr. Matheson’s steady voice doing its thing. I copied notes and nodded at the right moments, counting minutes instead of variables.
History came last.
Ellie sat next to me.
Close enough to feel familiar. Not close enough to mean anything.
She smiled when I sat down. I smiled back. Probably for too long—long enough that it went a little awkward before we both looked away.
The bell finally rang, and relief hit before anything else.
I just needed to make it to tonight.
Proof Before Panic
I barely made it through the front door before Mom clocked the backpack and the boots still on my feet. She knew I was heading back out to the Meridian. She always knows.
She went full Penelope about how much time I’d been spending there lately. Too many evenings. Too many “habits.”
I reminded her, calmly, that my computer was still set up there for homework.
Then I added that if she wanted me home every night, she could let me use her laptop instead.
That shut it down. It usually does.
Teddy showed up an hour after I got to the Meridian with his backpack slung over one shoulder, curious but not alarmed. We went to my room, and for a second it almost felt normal.
Then I handed him the Polaroid.
He frowned. Turned it over. Looked at me again.
It was him—standing in my room, holding the diary and the letter.
“You took this?”
“Yes,” I said. “Last week.”
His face went very still. “This isn’t AI, is it?”
That’s when I started.
I told him everything the way I’d practiced it—clean, ordered, no spirals. The version I trusted enough to say out loud. The diaries weren’t just about me. They tracked patterns. Other kids. The same condition. The same observations at Clearwater.
Ellie was one of them.
And her sister.
I explained why I’d been paying attention at school. Group projects. Small talk. Watching for consistency. Nothing dramatic—just confirmation.
Teddy didn’t interrupt. He just nodded, eyes flicking back to the Polaroid like it was keeping him grounded.
When I finished, he admitted he didn’t remember any of it.
That didn’t surprise either of us.
I handed him Younger Penny’s first diary next. He flipped through it carefully.
Even though I was limiting my exposure to memory blasts, I still touched one of the pages.
The blast hit.
The heat.
The veins.
The look on his face when it landed.
That part never gets easier.
He didn’t pull away. Didn’t panic. Just stared for a second, then nodded once.
“Okay,” he said. Firmer. “Yeah. I believe you.”
Something in my chest finally loosened.
We stayed up later than we meant to. I took Teddy through the last two months—the version of events that still held together. I skipped the parts about Ellie that I didn’t have words for yet. Not because I didn’t trust him, but because I didn’t trust myself to explain it right.
Then we went over our last deep diary dive before Clearwater. Up to where we started in the first diary from 2016—following his notes in the index as we began again from the beginning, in order.
By the time he left, the clock had crept into early-morning territory.
Before he went, he asked if I was okay.
“I will be,” I said. “I just needed you back in the loop.”
He smiled. Familiar. Steady.
“I’ve got you,” he said. “Again.”
After he left, I put everything back where it belonged—the diary, the Polaroids, the letter.
Same pieces.
Same plan.
Different reset.
And at least one person choosing to carry it with me—even if he had to learn it all over again.
Thursday, March 5, 2026
Deferred Escape
Thursday started with English, which should’ve grounded me.
We were dissecting something symbolic and tragic. I answered when called on, wrote the right things down, nodded at the right moments—but my attention kept sliding sideways. Like my thoughts were already packing up, even if the rest of me was still at my desk.
By the time we got to Media Studies, I felt oddly primed for something to happen.
We were mid-discussion when Mr. Lefevre clapped his hands and called the room to attention. He looked pleased with himself, which is never subtle.
Apparently, we’d earned something.
The following Monday afternoon, we’d be heading out to scout locations and plan logistics for the shoot. On-site. No regular classes. Just Media Studies and the project.
A ripple of excitement moved through the room. Chairs shifted. Someone whispered yes under their breath.
I felt it too—the idea of being outside school walls, away from lockers and watchful glances. Space mattered more right now than I wanted to admit. I didn’t even mind missing the rest of the day. Missing Drama still stung a little, but still—who turns down a sanctioned escape.
Ellie smiled at the news.
Not careful.
Not rehearsed.
Just real.
Then Candy laughed—sharp, performative—and Ellie’s smile tightened, folding back into something smaller.
Mr. Lefevre kept talking. Deadlines. Permission slips. Expectations.
I barely heard him.
Monday afternoon hovered in my head like a question mark.
History Repeats (Almost)
Lunch and Gym blurred past in the way they do when you’re waiting for something without knowing why.
History dragged.
Same room. Same desks. Same lecture Mr. Jefferson has probably been giving since before time was invented. But none of that mattered.
Because Ellie sat next to me.
I noticed the dragon before I noticed anything else—not because it was loud or dramatic, but because she disappeared into it. Pencil moving steadily. Confident. Like the rest of the room had slipped out of focus and left her alone with the page.
She drew the whole thing.
The long, coiling body. The way it looped back on itself like it was chasing its own tail. Scales layered one by one. Sharp little spikes running down its spine. Whiskers flaring from its face. Claws curved like they actually knew how to grip something.
No wings.
It didn’t need them.
She didn’t look up once. Didn’t hesitate. Didn’t second-guess a single line.
I watched, a little stunned, like I’d wandered into something private by accident.
Candy sat a few rows up. Watching.
I kept expecting Ellie to falter. To glance up. To catch Candy’s eye and fold in on herself like she usually does.
She didn’t.
The dragon kept growing—coiling, taking up space.
The bell was seconds from ringing when Candy stood and drifted closer, casual as she always is when she’s about to make a point.
I knew that look. I knew what came next.
Ellie’s pencil paused. Her hand hovered, waiting.
I felt it then—the exact moment something clicked into place.
Not anger.
Not bravery.
Just certainty.
Not this time.
“She’s just doodling,” I said, before Candy could open her mouth. “Half the class is.”
Candy stopped.
Mr. Jefferson glanced up from his notes. “As long as everyone’s keeping up,” he said, already losing interest.
Ellie didn’t erase anything.
She didn’t look at me. She didn’t say thank you. She just closed the notebook carefully, like she was protecting something fragile.
When the bell rang, she packed up fast and left with Candy. No glance back. No acknowledgment.
But as she passed my desk, she held the notebook tight against her chest.
The dragon stayed.
Not a win.
Not a breakthrough.
Just a line I didn’t let get crossed.
Sugar Errands and Normality Pretending
I went to Cascades after school to order Gramps’s birthday cake.
March 15.
Fixed date.
Non-negotiable.
That mattered more than it probably should.
The place smelled like sugar and coffee and normal human problems. The chalkboard menu had little hand-drawn stars around the specials, and someone had added a small sign near the counter that read Spring Is Coming (Allegedly).
In Meridia Falls, that could mean tomorrow.
I stood there longer than necessary, just breathing it in.
This wasn’t about cake.
This was about choosing something that stays.
When they asked what kind of theme I wanted, I didn’t even hesitate. That part surprised me.
“A classic movie one,” I said. “Black-and-white vibe. Old Hollywood. Nothing flashy.”
They nodded like that made perfect sense, which helped more than I expected.
I pictured it instantly. Clean lines. Film-reel details. Maybe a tiny clapperboard.
Something Gramps would love. Something that felt like him. Like the Meridian before renovations, before everything started glitching.
Solid.
Timeless.
Un-resettable.
I paid, double-checked the pickup date, and added it to my phone calendar.
I stared at the confirmation for a second longer than necessary, like it might vanish if I didn’t.
I felt weirdly competent about it.
While I waited for the receipt, my eyes drifted to the booth where Ellie and I had sat before everything shifted.
I didn’t go over.
I didn’t scan the room.
I noticed the pull—acknowledged it—and let it pass.
Progress, apparently.
On the skate home, the paper bag felt warm against my wrist, the receipt folded safely in my pocket. Proof of a future event that didn’t care about Clearwater or missing memories.
For once, that was enough.
Tomorrow, I can go back to juggling mysteries.
Today, I ordered cake.
And that counts for something.
Quiet Panic
When I got home, I put the TV on in the background while I dumped my backpack on the bed and kicked off my boots. Some entertainment news thing was playing—red carpets, glitter, people pretending to be relaxed while being aggressively famous.
Charisma Cavanagh’s face flashed across the screen.
Local success story. Oscar nominee.
(They didn’t mention her dubious past this time.)
I froze for half a second as the announcer mentioned the Oscar ceremony date.
March 15.
Gramps’s birthday.
Of course it was.
He always watches the Oscars. Every year. Makes a whole night of it—commentary, trivia, dramatic sighs about movies being better in his day. I smiled despite myself, already mentally rearranging plans. Cake earlier. Oscars later. Maybe dinner out in between.
And then it hit me.
His present.
I hadn’t checked on it since Clearwater.
The smile vanished as I grabbed my phone, thumb moving faster than my thoughts. What if it hadn’t survived the reality shift? What if it had slipped through the cracks with everything else?
The order was still there.
Paid. Confirmed.
And better than that—
Shipped.
Delivery scheduled for next week.
I exhaled so hard it felt like my ribs unlocked.
Some things still arrive when they’re supposed to.
Some timelines still hold.
I set the phone face down on the bed and lay back, staring at the ceiling.
Okay.
Cake ordered. Present safe. March 15 accounted for.
For tonight, that was enough.
Friday, March 6, 2026
Background Noise Friday
The day started like nothing important was going to happen.
French drills. History notes. The low-grade buzz of people already halfway checked out for the weekend.
In History, Ellie sat a little straighter.
She actually looked at me when I made a comment under my breath about Mr. Jefferson repeating himself. Not long—just long enough to register. She smiled, and this time it didn’t collapse immediately after.
She still kept her notebook close. Still watched Candy out of the corner of her eye.
But she didn’t shrink.
Not the way she usually does.
First Time, Again
Lunch was loud and territorial.
Candy was there—not doing anything specific, just occupying space like a warning label.
The rest of her orbit wasn’t far behind. Laughter on cue. Phones out. Eyes drifting our way and then away again.
Ellie was with them, but not of them—careful, quiet, radar always on.
Cavanagh hovered near the end of the table, pretending not to hover, which somehow made it worse.
Ketchup-level threat of social retaliation hung over the whole thing.
Teddy slid into the seat across from me with his tray and a look that said I am pretending this is a normal lunch.
“Saturday,” I said quietly, once he’d settled.
He blinked. “Saturday?”
“Diary deep dive,” I added. “Meridian. Afternoon.”
He nodded, then hesitated. “Okay. That’ll be… weird.”
“Yeah,” I said. “First time always is.”
He frowned. “Except it’s not. Technically.”
“Right,” I said. “First time for this version of you.”
That earned a short, uncertain laugh—the kind that doesn’t know what it’s reacting to yet. Candy glanced our way. Teddy immediately focused very hard on his fries.
Science and Math blurred together after that. Lab tables. Numbers. Worksheets pretending to be stability.
By the time the final bell rang, I’d already filed the day under unremarkable.
I was wrong.
Something Left Behind
At my locker, I almost didn’t notice it.
The paper was folded carefully and tucked just inside the door—not shoved, not crumpled. Intentional.
I unfolded it slowly.
It was a drawing of a dragon.
The dragon Ellie was drawing in History—the one that didn’t get erased.
Familiar curves. Fully colored in, layered with patient shades.
At the bottom, in small writing, was a message.
“Thank you—E”
That was it.
I knew the handwriting immediately. The same careful pressure. The same tiny hesitation in the letters. Like the note she left me before.
Ellie.
My heart did that thing where it jumps and then freezes, like it’s not sure which reaction is safer.
She hadn’t said anything else. No explanation. No follow-up.
Which meant this wasn’t careless.
This was a risk.
I slipped the drawing into my backpack and closed my locker like nothing had happened. I didn’t look around. I didn’t try to find her in the hallway.
I let the moment stay small.
Hope, reintroduced quietly.
No promises.
No guarantees.
Just proof that something landed.
And that maybe, even carefully, something was still reaching back.
Delayed Plans, Lingering Pull
I didn’t make it all the way home before stopping. I slowed, stepped off my board, and pulled the drawing out of my backpack.
I unfolded it carefully, like it might vanish if I rushed.
It was still there.
The dragon. The colors. The small, careful “Thank you—E” at the bottom.
I stood there longer than I needed to, just to be sure I hadn’t imagined the whole thing. Then I folded it back up and tucked it away again, my heart doing that jump-freeze thing all over.
As I skated the rest of the way home, I thought about messaging Teddy to tell him about the drawing.
I didn’t. I wasn’t ready to explain something I hadn’t explained to myself yet.
Ellie felt different now.
By the time I got home, I’d rewritten the message in my head at least ten times.
Hey.
Too casual.
Thanks for the drawing.
Too loaded.
Are you okay?
Absolutely not.
I opened Instagram and stared at the empty message box like it might judge me. Which, honestly, it probably was.
I typed. Deleted. Typed again.
I kept trying to make it sound normal. Friendly. Low-stakes.
Nothing worked.
So I stopped trying.
Me: Can you meet me at Cascades tomorrow morning at 10am? We need to talk.
I stared at it for a long second. Read it again.
Still honest. Still terrifying.
My thumbs hovered over the send button.
I thought about adding the code word.
Remember Fay.
The quiet agreement.
The this-is-safe signal.
The proof I could pull out if she didn’t believe me.
But I didn’t want that to be the first thing I used.
I wanted Ellie to come because she chose to—not because I unlocked something she didn’t understand yet.
So I left it out.
I hit send.
The message sat there.
Delivered.
No reply. No Seen.
I put my phone face down on the bed and told myself not to check again.
I failed at that almost immediately.
Nothing had changed.
Still—the message was out there now. Solid. Real. Timed.
Like the cake order. Like proof.
Tomorrow at 10am, it either happens or it doesn’t.
And somehow, that felt worse—and better—than wondering forever.
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DB
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