Chapter 1: The Notebook That Spoke Back

I stumbled on the diary by pure accident. The kind of thing that happens when you’re bored and poking through the cluttered shelves of an old New England antique shop, the bell jingling behind you. The place smelled like dusty paperbacks and lemon Pledge, with a Red Sox pennant drooping over the counter and a cash register that looked straight out of a black-and-white movie. This was my ritual after work—a little treasure hunt to unwind after another day wrangling seventh graders and their spelling quizzes.

That day, a battered brown notebook caught my eye. Its leather cover was scuffed soft, the corners worn to velvet. The guy behind the counter, silver hair and wire-rimmed glasses, claimed it was from the 1920s. I rolled my eyes—every old thing here supposedly came from the Roaring Twenties—but for twenty bucks, I decided it was coming home with me.

The notebook felt solid in my hands. The pages had yellowed to a warm cream, edges crisp but not crumbling. No coffee stains, no torn corners—just the slow, even aging of something treasured. Someone had cared about this book.

Inside, on the very first page, three big words curved across the top in looping script that looked just like my grandma’s Christmas cards:

Diary.

Right below, faded almost to sepia, was a grumpy little line: "Today the teacher told us all to start writing diaries. Who in their right mind writes a diary? So boring."

I laughed out loud, nearly startling the shop cat off the counter. Some things never change—kids are still kids, even a hundred years later.

The diary was full of quick snapshots—little slices of some boy’s life, his penmanship cocky and a bit dramatic. The kind they drilled into you back when neatness actually counted.

"1925, May 5th

Argued with Dad, got grounded, it sucks."

"May 6th morning, ate at Joe’s Diner, delicious." There was even a doodle—a stack of pancakes, I think.

"1925, May 7th, sunny.

Today I skipped class to play cards with Tommy and the guys. Who would've thought the teacher would actually chase me home and really lay into me. So annoying!"

I pictured some kid in knickers and suspenders sprinting down a leafy street, chased by a red-faced teacher. But when I flipped to the next page, the fun stopped—the rest of the diary was just empty, yellowed pages waiting for words that never came.

So this kid quit after three days. Figures. Typical teenager.

He’s got an attention span even shorter than mine—I once bought a yoga mat I used twice and then turned it into a cat bed.

It made me smile. On a whim, I grabbed my ballpoint pen and scrawled a line right under his last entry. The blue ink looked almost neon next to the faded brown.

"May 8th, 2024. Worked too long, exhausted."

I didn’t think much of it. Closed the diary, set it on my nightstand with the pile of ungraded tests, and passed out.

The next morning, coffee in hand, I cracked open the diary again. My breath caught, heart hammering against my ribs. Right below my writing, three bold words stared up at me, inked in that same old brown:

"Who are you!"

I blinked hard, nearly sloshing coffee onto my jeans. Was this some kind of prank? Yesterday, that page was blank. The new words looked aged, not fresh. My fingers trembled as I held the diary up to the light, searching for hidden tricks or invisible ink.

Every ghost story my students had ever told in October buzzed through my mind. Goosebumps rose along my arms. Still, my teacher’s curiosity won out. I gripped my pen and wrote, my hand shaking:

"Then who are you? Are you human or... a ghost?"

Before the ink dried, new words bled through, the brown lines appearing as if by magic:

"You finally replied. I waited for you for ten whole days. How can you write in my diary out of thin air!"

Ten days? His diary? My mind scrambled, flipping back and forth. The handwriting matched—same flourishes, same tilt. Was this really the owner? Was he writing from 1925?

He said he waited ten days, but only one day had passed here. Did time flow differently? Was a single day here ten days there?

None of it made sense. My thoughts spun, logic failing me, but excitement fizzed in my veins. My heart pounded like I’d sprinted up three flights of stairs.

Me, Rachel Quinn, doomed to a life of recycled lesson plans and summer vacation essays, had stumbled into something impossible—a conversation with someone from a hundred years ago.

I took a deep breath, nerves jangling, and wrote back:

"My name is Rachel Quinn. I’m from a hundred years in the future."

I stared at the old diary, heart pounding, as the words shimmered on the page. Was I really talking to a ghost... or something else entirely?