The journal lay on Sarah's desk, tucked between a paperback novel and a half-used stick of lip balm. It hadn't been there the night before. At least, not that Sarah remembered.
It had a linen cover, pale gray, unmarked. No title, no stickers, no pen loop. Just blank. Unassuming. Clean.
She found it after brushing her teeth, half-asleep, the morning sun just beginning to touch the edge of her windowpane. The air smelled faintly of dust and mint toothpaste. She flipped the journal open without expectation.
Every page was empty.
Still groggy, she ran a thumb along the inside spine. No notes. No inscription. No name.
She placed it back on the desk and got ready for the day, pulling on her jacket and tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. She glanced at the journal again before heading out. Something about its presence tugged faintly at her, but she didn't dwell on it.
Across the street, Mia leaned against the shadow of a phone pole, watching the bedroom window. Her notebook was open to the previous night's entry:
Artifact Placed: Subject Room, 1:13 AM.
Object: Blank journal. Condition: pristine.
Intent: Uncoded anchoring. No visible direction. No signature.
She tapped her pen once. Twice.
What happens when nothing is given but space?
That night, at 3:12 AM, Sarah stirred in her sleep.
The covers had tangled around her legs. Her breathing was steady, but her hands moved—reaching for the journal in the dark.
She didn't turn on the light.
She opened to the first page.
She picked up the pen beside her bed.
And wrote:
To the dream girl, thank you.
She returned the pen, closed the journal, and rolled over.
She didn't wake.
Not really.
Mia had been sitting outside for hours.
The streetlamp buzzed behind her. Her notebook was balanced on her knees, though she hadn't written anything since midnight.
When the light in Sarah's room flickered slightly and a shadow moved—just briefly—Mia stood.
She crept closer. Not to the house. Just to the gate.
She waited.
In the silence, in the stillness, she felt something pull in her chest. Not a ripple. Not a blur.
A shift.
Morning came slowly.
Sarah woke late, rubbed at her eyes, and reached instinctively for the pen. She glanced at the journal.
It was closed.
She didn't remember writing in it.
She opened it.
And froze.
She touched the ink lightly.
The page read:
To the dream girl, thank you.
She stared.
And felt… calm. Curious. But not afraid.
She turned the page. It was blank.
All of it.
Except that line.
She whispered, "Weird," under her breath, and set the journal down.
Behind the bookshelf, a sliver of sunlight traced the edge of a photograph taped to the wall. One she rarely noticed. It had slipped behind the frame long ago. Now it caught the light just enough to glint.
Across the street, Mia sat with her knees pulled to her chest. She hadn't slept. Her fingers were cold.
But when she opened her notebook and found that same line written in Sarah's hand, transcribed from the memory she had watched unfold through glass and time, she felt warm.
She wrote:
Subject interaction: subconscious link. Unknown trigger.
Message content: ambiguous gratitude. Presumed directed to unseen guardian.
She hesitated.
Then added:
Emotional effect: destabilizing. Calming. Grief-adjacent.
Sarah brushed her teeth that morning as usual.
She tied her hair back.
She grabbed the journal and stuffed it into her bag.
Didn't say why.
Didn't need to.
That night, as streetlamps shimmered on puddles and the world tucked itself in again, Mia returned to the window.
Inside, Sarah slept. A soft blanket pulled up over one shoulder. The journal lay on the nightstand. The pen rested diagonally across it, as if guarding it.
The light from her bedside lamp was still on. It hummed faintly.
Mia whispered, just loud enough that maybe the wind would hear:
"Please don't forget me."
She stayed longer than usual, not taking notes.
Just watching.
The windowpane had a small crack in the upper corner. Through it, Mia could see Sarah's steady breathing. One hand curled beneath her cheek.
The edges of the journal peeked from beneath a folded scarf.
Mia stepped closer to the fence, heart thrumming.
She didn't need to be seen.
She just wanted to be remembered.
She wrote one more thing in her notebook before she left:
Proof of resonance: secured. Echo confirmed.
And for the first time in days, she closed the journal gently, not with a snap.
She let herself walk home slowly.
No rerouting. No monitoring.
Just air.
Just time.