A secret the story holds

The little black notebook.

The dark gold light from streetlamps floods the night stopped only by the thinning tree leaves, then drips down on the street smothered by shadows. It is 3 am, and I still cannot get any sleep. I get up and walk across the room, sitting down by the table. Vague headache, sore muscles and irritated eyes have now passed through the body, and it almost feels like it creeps in my spirit. Yet my mind is racing from past regrets to future doubts and all in between, my heart beating with a force that hurts. I slide my hand over the tabletop were paper heaps reminding me of overdue deadlines and half-done projects ley. My self-illusion of organised chaos justifying this madness. Fingertips touch the cover of a book, turning my full attention to the latest obsession. I have pushed all my responsibilities aside to immerse myself in the books cryptic story and unveil its secret.

An obscure story from an unnamed author first enticed me years ago when I found the book by lucky chance browsing my hometown library's exchange section. I was sure to have lost it when I moved here but found one in a used bookstore around the corner. This volume was older, with yellowed still soft pages tied in a hardcover. Edges of the cover were worn out by repeated use, and pages covered with scribbles and parts of the text were underlined. Readers obsession with the story seduced me right away. After a careful inspection, the mad man's scrawls revealed a conversation was the reader constructed dialogue with the Author. He argued and pleaded to the inanimate text divulging a tragic and regretful story. To my best ability, I tried to reconstruct the conversation. Instead of my usual tactics of single sheet papers, this task required something better. I chose the newly bought little black notebook, leather covers with a strap, crispy white pages. I purchased this little wonder to organise my work and hoped for my subconscious mind to follow the trend, but this task seemed worthy of my little black notebook. My gaze slides to a corner of the table where a thick envelope was resting uninterrupted. Yes, the envelope! Last week I realised that both the story and the following scribbled conversation described places in this very city, and I decided to trace their steps. That was one imagination boosting walk seeing the sites and picture conversations taking place here. I even found my way to an apartment described in the book. Waiting by the door when someone came out, I slid right into the apartment building and found the right doors. I knocked, but there was no answer. I was about to leave, but curiosity got the best of me, and I tried the doorknob. The doors were not locked. The small studio apartment was filled with antique furniture, walls were covered in bookshelves, a single size bed and an empty desk situated by the only window in the apartment. The kitchen was tiny and odd. The apartment was abandoned for a long time judging by the dust layers on all surfaces. It gave uncomfortable vibes, just like the place wanted to stay uninterrupted. Only my footprints on the dusty floor remained. Although undoubtedly odd, it was by far the best day I had in such a long time. The next day I received this envelope. No return address or note or writing of any kind but two neatly tied bundles of money inside of it. I counted it over and over again, twenty thousand. And so, it has just laid there for the past week, adding to the mystery.

With the early morning light outside, I decided to make myself a coffee cup. There was no point trying to get back to sleep. I took my little black notebook and started to read it again. Story recurrently gravitated to the house with the red gate. I visited the place on my previous exploration trips, never getting the courage to go near and always set down on a bench in a park next to the house. So also, today I decided to visit the place again. I washed my face and changed clothing. In my coat pockets, I put the little black notebook, the envelope with cash and the book, made sure I look presentable and walked out. The mask of normalcy like a stone wall guards me against everyone. Whatever happens within me is mine alone. In-depth of my heart, I know how destructive it is to push everyone away. I have pushed anyone who tried to get close. It is all just a game. Life is just a series of enigmas to solve. I take what I need and leave when I want. It is all just a fleeting notion; emotions are overrated and relationships an imaginary construct. Fairy tales we tell ourselves. A ringing of a bell from a passing cyclist pulls me out from my thoughts. I walk past the red gate, into the park and sit down on the bench. As a ritual, I take out the book and put it next to me. Then I read from my little black notebook that now serves as an aid nay an augment story to the one in the book.

The house's story with the red gate always included three people, the Author, the Corresponded and a woman. Where in the book, the narrative was of love and lifelong friendship, the augmented story told of emotional abuse and manipulation. The Corresponded regrated the treatment of the woman and blamed the Author. What am I doing here obsessing over a made-up story? This is madness! An escapism fantasy to distract me from life. A justification for procrastination! A metallic click from the red gate interrupts my inner dialogue. Out comes well-dressed women heading in my direction with such confidence and power I considered to run. She stops a few steps from me.

'What are you planning to achieve by stalking me?' She asks with a tone that immediately draws respect and reverence towards her.

‘I… hmm… it's that… this story I… the reason...' words just refused to come out of my mouth. I could not help but feel guilty for intruding. This woman could make the whole world apologies to her.

'Well? What are you doing here?' She asked, walking closer. Her eyes froze on seeing the book on the bench. For a moment, she looked scared and stepped back. 'Where did you get that book?'

The brief moment of her losing the stand allowed me to gather my thoughts. I told her of me finding the book, sleepless nights decoding the scribbles, visiting the apartment, and receiving the envelope with cash.

The moment of silence was followed by a deep breath and a reminiscent look in afar. With a slight wave, she invited me to join her for a walk, to which I submitted unhesitatingly. I anticipated to receive her account of the story in the book but ended up telling her my life story. The reasons for my estrangement from family and friends. The constant need to move. Inability to commit whether it is the job of relationship. I told her of my stoic life philosophy. I did not control the words flowing over my lips. I lost my posture. Possibly my left eye started to twitch, and even unwelcomed tear escaped a corner of my eye. We finished our walk by the red gate, and only then I received some agency over my own thoughts.

'But wait! What about this story? And money? If I have understood these pages right, the Corresponded wants to amend the things he is done to you. This belongs to you.' I said, handing her the envelope.

‘Oh! He always was such an enigmatic.’ She said with both happy reminiscence and hurt in her voice. ‘You remind me of him.’

'What happened between us is past. It has made me who I am, and there is no changing it. As for you… do not waste your time fixing other people mistakes. Use this money to rewrite the regrets you told me of. And don't hide your emotions from yourself!' She said, closing the gate and giving me a warm glance.