I kept the key in a velvet box under my bed. Through every move, every birthday, every version of myself I tried on like borrowed clothes, the key stayed. A talisman. A riddle without a question.
My name was embossed on the cover in gold letters I’ve never seen before. My birthdate beneath it. And when I opened to the first page, the ink was still wet. emily's diary - chapter 1
It wasn’t in the attic of her old house, or buried in the garden, or hidden behind a loose brick in the fireplace. It was in a drawer of her writing desk—a desk I’ve opened a hundred times. But today, I pulled the drawer out all the way. Tapped the bottom panel. It slid aside. I kept the key in a velvet box under my bed