Rowley Diary Novels & Stories

Hi peekaboo diary. So happy that I changed the old Diary that seems to be filled with only bad memories. But I promise you, that I'm filling you with hot and steamy memories. So let's just recap about my life. I'm Rumi. I married my high school boyfriend and have two beautiful children. However, my marriage turned into divorce because of that asshole. I spent nearly 20 years with the same man, faithful, and loyal. On the eve of Christmas eve, in the northeast winters, my friend Sara and I met up at a local restaurant bar to grab some drinks and catch up on all the happenings in our lives.

I believed him and never questioned it. The door was unlocked and opened with a gentle push. The study was decorated minimally. There was just one massive desk and a bookcase that reached the ceiling. However, there were no photos of his parents or his brother, Alex. Instead, the walls were covered with Rachel Taylor's pictures. Rachel as a teenager, running along the shore in a white dress. Rachel in college, smiling by a library window as she held her textbook. Rachel in a wedding gown... My eyes burned. Through my tears, I noticed a diary on the desk.

Marcus was waiting in the small study off the library when Rowan arrived, the journal already open on the desk between them, along with a second folio Rowan didn't recognize — older, the leather more worn, the pages inside yellowed in a way that suggested it predated even his mother's final year. "You said there was more context," Rowan said, taking the seat across from him. "Context only you have."

Finally Evelyn turned toward him. "Let's stop wasting time." "Alright." "You know something about the spire." Rowan sighed heavily. "There it is." "There what is?" "The interrogation." His expression suggested he had expected it from the beginning. Evelyn didn't care. She was tired of mysteries. Tired of half-truths. Tired of everyone speaking like they were reading pieces from different books. "The journals," she said. "Tell me about them." Rowan remained quiet for several seconds before answering.

he said, his tone deferential, "here is the information we managed to gather about Danial." Rowan set aside his fishing rod and took the file, flipping it open with a practiced ease. His eyes scanned the contents, taking in the sparse details presented to him. The file contained only a few pages, filled with basic information—nothing substantial, nothing that would provide any real insight into who Danial was or what he was truly capable of.

Underneath the agreement was a thin notebook with two words written on the cover. "Desensitization Log." Rowan flipped open the first page. My writing was plain as day. "Day 1: Ryan ran a fever of 103.3°F. Rowan received a call from Megan and left the hospital. Ryan cried for 17 minutes, asking if Daddy didn't love him anymore. That night, I told Ryan to call him Mr. Goodwin. Ryan hesitated for 43 seconds."

Lucien raised an eyebrow. "You've been spending too much time around him." She nudged his shoulder. "You're avoiding my question." "No." "You absolutely are." "I already answered it." "You said he can't be convinced." "That's because it's true." Rosalie smiled to herself. "Maybe Pearl doesn't convince him." Lucien looked at her curiously. "Maybe he just wants to listen." For the first time that morning, Rosalie had no clever reply. Before either of them could continue, Rowan emerged from his tent carrying the ancient black book wrapped carefully in dark cloth. The easy mood around the camp faded as conversations gradually fell silent.

He doesn't know if his father will return. He was two hundred in age, his father was almost thousands. He can still recall his father's order, "If you want to leave, do it. Don't worry about me. Go in a year where peace is at hand..." His diary dated February 1915. He was doubting on leaving his father. It took him hours before he decided on entering the room with the diary clipped in his armpit, the pocket watch on his left hand, and the gold key inside his pocket and chanted the same.

With trembling hands, I approached it, my fingers brushing against the rough wood. With a creak, I lifted the lid, revealing a treasure trove of forgotten memories. Among the yellowed pages and faded photographs, my gaze landed on a leather-bound diary. It was weathered with time, its once vibrant cover now worn and aged. I knew instinctively that this diary held the answers we had been searching for.

I purposely asked him. "What else would I mean?" He queried. But I was pretty sure that if he paid attention to details, he should have been able to tell already that it was a flop. "Ah." I breathed out. "It was just a waste of time." "What?" "It was shitty. Stupid. Can't believe I took all that risk just to get a fucking diary!" Ryder brought his legs down from the table, his brows lifting up. "A diary?" "A fucking diary!"