Nick flipped to the next page and saw the final entry but closed it before he could read it. He had not realized that his heart rate had increased, sweat forming on his forehead. He had become much more immersed in the journal than he thought possible for a piece of such obvious fiction.
He flipped through the previous papers, examining the citations at the bottom. He looked up some journal names on his phone and found no results. He then looked up some of the names cited. He got no hits and tried researching some of the cited names. When there were no results he tried being more specific and described Ramin Clemente's death and an article showed up from a local paper in Detroit from 8 years ago:
A man in his 40s died after jumping from a window of a high-rise building in downtown Detroit on Saturday morning. The incident happened around 10 am at the One Detroit Center on Woodward Avenue, according to Detroit Police Department spokesperson Sgt. Nicole Kirkwood. The man was pronounced dead at the scene and no foul play is suspected. The motive for the suicide is unknown and the identity of the man has not been released, pending notification of his family. The building was cordoned off as police investigated the incident.
Nick scanned the article 3 times and checked the dates, which all added up with the journal entries. He felt his heart rate begin to kick up again and he tried to focus on his breathing again as he tried to push out his head the ideas of potions and spells and time invocation.
A scene flashed before him as he dropped his phone on the bed:
A cold room, void of pictures but covered in gold décor. His body was slouched in a leather chair while a newspaper was spread across his lap. He held a cigar between his teeth and a glass of scotch sat beside him. He could not feel the chair beneath him or the paper in his hands, but he could feel the cold in his chest, the howl of the wind outside that shook the house. There was silence in his head, a stone lodged in his heart that made it difficult to breathe despite the freshness and newness of the room. He felt stable, yet alone.
When his phone began to ring Nick nearly jumped out of bed, mind returning to the present and looking down at where his phone sat on the bed, the screen was glowing with the name 'Sara' blinking at him. There was the instinctual urge to toss the phone to the other end of the bed, continue the solitude. But now he felt a different urge as well and answered the phone.
"Thank you, Nick," she said before he could say a word to her. "You are not on a flight soon, are you?"
"Unfortunately not. Most planes are still grounded until this storm passes."
"Would you be able to come to my apartment within an hour or two? Please? It's about Dad, and I know you still don't want to deal with anything involving him but—"
"I'll be there soon," Nick said as he cut her off. "Just give me the address and I can call a cab."
Sara gave him the address, thanked him, and hung up. He could hear the surprise in her voice and felt a little shocked himself.
He looked outside where the weather was worsening and groaned at the idea of venturing into it again. But after reading the journal, new thoughts began to work their way into his brain, wondering what the mind was like behind those strange entries, engaging in the idea that there was some truth to those words. He picked up the sense that David Alserda wanted to change something in his life, past or future, or possibly both. This time invocation was a temptation to the desperate and corruptible, wanting to change things in a way that defied nature. Even among the fantasy, there were still laws that had to be followed, or else dire consequences could occur.
Nick wondered if he had been given the chance to do what others had done reported by the journal, would he try to break the rules? What was there to do? Relive uncomfortable moments, watch his family pull apart, and as for the future…He didn't think about it much. He tried to always stay focused on the present, looking no farther than a week or two. There was too much destruction in the past and too much stress in the future. But when he thought about his life and his past, he found the thing protruding in his chest was regret. Reading the journal made him reflect on his own life. He didn't want to hold onto lifetime grudges. There was no point. Work through the ruffles on your timeline because there is something smoother waiting ahead.
Nick spent 20 minutes trying to dry his clothes with a faulty hairdryer in the bathroom. He was repacking his things when he looked at the journal still on the bed. He picked it up and flipped to the last page.
November 14, 1991
You don't notice when your mind will corrode. You keep pushing the limits, envisioning a horizon that you will never reach, and then SNAP! and everything breaks down. I've watched my entire life play out from beginning to end. I've seen my birth and first birthday, first day of school, and first time learning to drive. I watched my first wife die and witnessed the birth of my son (I wish I could keep that memory on repeat). I watched myself become a professor and influence young minds. I watched myself grow old, spending my life with a face I didn't recognize. Her smile brought me joy and I could feel the dread when she passed on before me. I saw myself living alone in a small house surrounded by sycamore trees. I wasn't happy in my final hours, and there were only glimpses of happiness in my past compared to the ugly emotions that invaded most of my life. When you can view the full timeline, start to finish, what's the point of playing it out? But there was something I noticed as I watched my life fold away, I had memory but something was missing. The feeling of warm hands holding mine, the coolness of winter breezes when I sat alone among the sycamores. Emotion is an important part of our experiences. I will ponder on what to do next, but this will be my last journal entry. I hope that whoever reads this takes lessons from my mistakes, and I hope your life will be better because of it. Perhaps that was the purpose of this journal all along.
Nick closed the notebook, and another scene flashed before his eyes:
He sat next to Sara in a church much like the one that held his father's funeral. Light streamed through colored glass and his nephew stood handsomely at the podium, a graceful young girl walking down the aisle. Smiles filled the room, and Nick saw faces strange yet familiar. Gentle music echoed off the walls and Sara beamed with pride that brought tears to her eyes. She gripped his hand, and he could not feel the warmth of her palm, but he could see her fingers clench his hand, and a warmth in his head told him he was not alone.
Nick moved back to the present and looked at the notebook in front of him. He thought about putting it in his bag but decided against it. It wasn't his to take. He placed it in the drawer of the end table and grabbed his bag from the floor. He muttered a 'thank you' to David Alserda as he shut the door.