Rain lashed against the attic window, mirroring the relentless drumming in Elias’s skull. He hadn’t been up here in years, not since… well, since everything fell apart. Dust motes danced in the single ray of sunlight slicing through the gloom, illuminating a metal box buried beneath a pile of old quilts. He didn’t recognize the ornate lock, or the faint, unfamiliar etching on the lid. His breath hitched in his chest as he bent down, fingers tracing the cold metal. A shiver coursed through him, a bone-deep chill that had nothing to do with the damp air.
He picked at the lock with a rusty nail he found on the floor. It scraped and groaned in protest, but eventually, with a final click, it yielded. Inside, nestled amongst yellowed newspaper clippings and a faded photograph, was a small, leather-bound journal. He flipped it open, the brittle pages whispering in the quiet space. The handwriting was his own, undoubtedly, but the words… they were a puzzle. He didn’t remember writing them. His heart hammered against his ribs; a frantic bird trapped in a cage.
The journal described a future he couldn’t fathom, a future brimming with anxieties and despair. The words, filled with dark predictions, felt like a premonition. He slammed the journal shut, the sound echoing in the empty space. He felt the blood drain from his face, and his stomach lurched. The rain intensified, and he buried his face in his hands.