Reading Journal: For Book Lovers Novels & Stories

It felt like she was still here with me, in this room, and for a moment, I forgot about everything else. I heaved a heavy sigh and turned around, but something caught my attention on her bookshelf. There, nestled between the works of Jane Austen, was a small leather-bound journal that I had never seen before. I picked it up, feeling its soft cover under my fingertips and carefully flipping through the pages. As I read her delicate handwriting, my heart ached with both joy and sadness. This journal was a window into her thoughts, her feelings, her dreams. It was like a piece of her that I had never known before.

I followed Blade's gaze and then turned to look at him again. "Well, I'm glad you have something left of them. Do you read it often?" "Not very often but when I'm stressed or not in a great mood. Their journal entries are a good refreshers and tells me more about their love for each other. Or other things in general" he answered. "Must be nice to know more about them..." I murmured and sighed. Blade smiled small and said, "Yes, indeed. So do you plan on reading the book right now?"

Red dots blinked overhead—cameras everywhere. The room screamed luxury trap: white oak floors shining, cream linen curtains puffing from vents, bed big enough to lose yourself in. My duffel sat open on the rack—empty. Every scrap of my clothes gone. In their place: one sheer black bodysuit on the bed, crotchless, backless, spotlighted like an altar. Cost more than my rent, hid nothing. Note in Damian’s handwriting on cream card: Wear this to lunch. Nothing else. –D

The room was warm and dark and quiet. "The journal is for the ninth year," Don said. "And the tenth. And the years beyond. The journal is for the person who will read it when we are no longer here. That person will not have been at the first sitting room fire. That person will not have stood on the Byzantine walls. That person will not have watched the foxgloves spread on the seventh May. But that person will have the journal. The journal will be the container. The content will be life. The translation will carry something of the original."

The FT section of the rack was the deepest, the issues stacked in reverse chronological order, the most recent on top. Two culinary journals, Elijah's, which arrived monthly and were read promptly and thoroughly. Elijah read them with a pen in hand, making notes in the margins, dog-earing pages that referenced techniques he wanted to try or restaurants he wanted to visit or chefs whose work he wanted to understand better. The culinary journals never stayed in the rack for long — they migrated to Elijah's office or to the kitchen or to the small stack beside his side of the bed — but they passed through the rack on their way to wherever they were going.

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