The Journal

Your hands ran across the sturdy wooden shelves of your local bookshop as you wandered down the aisles. You’d been searching for a book to fill the hole in your heart left by the last one you had devoured in one sitting. As the shelves ran out of possible books and you neared the darkest corner of the shop, your fingers slipped over a dilapidated little black book. The worn exterior caught your attention, having felt so many smooth titled spines throughout the selection. All of your attention homed in on reading the cover of this small book. But no title was to be seen on its cover, spine, or back. Interest peaked at the tip of your nose as you flipped open to what should be home to a title page. There on the first page, perfect swirls of the letters M.A.P. rested beneath the words “This Book Belongs To”. Your brain ran through its traffic of thoughts in attempt to figure out what type of book would belong to someone. As guilt quickly pops in, you close the journal and hesitate for a moment with it still resting in your hands. You look for a barcode and hope to discover a price; something to indicate that it is safe for you to read. As you turned it over your eyes fell upon the edges of the book, where “Read Me” was sprawled into the fore edges. With curiosity holding you by your tongue, you traipse up to the register to leave your decision in the hands of the shopkeeper. The old man had been peering out the window at the grey clouds in the sky when you pulled him from his ponderings. You gently set the little black book on the counter and asked if he knew the price. He shook his head and said it must have been a book someone left behind. He offered that you could keep it, though he didn’t understand why you would want to. So, with a goodbye, you left the bookshop with your eyes intent on discovering the owner of the forgotten journal.

Inside of the journal were a multitude of entries with not a year in sight, only days and months. As you waited at your bus stop, you poured over the words on each page, searching for any indication of where M.A.P. might live. You tried your best to ignore the personal words and poetry written on the pages. By the time your bus arrived, you had already thumbed through the first twenty pages. That was the fastest bus ride home in your life, as you had been completely lost in time within the journal. You reluctantly tucked the book into your backpack as you walked home, cursing at the loss of light as the sun set against the horizon. You eagerly unlocked your front door and began unzipping your bag, almost forgetting the keys in the lock as you did so. You began searching the pages for clues once again, hoping to find anything that might help you solve your own little mystery. You put the tea kettle on, with book still in hand. While you waited for the water to boil, you found a page that named a coffee shop just a few blocks away. Resting on the page next to it was a drawing of a small picture frame on a wall. You squinted at the art and tried your best to make out what had been scribbled into the frame. The kettle whistled as you pulled out your own notebook and wrote down your first clue. You stole a glance at the clock on the stove and realized you could make it to the coffee shop before they closed today. You quickly clicked off the burner and grabbed your coat before bursting out your front door, little black book in hand. Your keys rattled in your pocket as you jogged down the city blocks.

You skidded to a stop in front of the coffee shop and slowed your breathing pattern before making your way inside. There on the far wall, was a picture frame that matched the drawing in the book. You quietly walked up to the frame with your heart racing in your ears. It was a map of the city, with colorful push pins decorating a multitude of locations. You glanced down at the journal again and realized there was a black dot on the frame. But as you searched the map, you were faced with a colorful rainbow of colors to sift through. Your shoulders slumped slightly at the fear of a dead end. Your eyes, however, had not given up hope as you looked over the map once more. There, across town from the very space you were standing, was a black push pin. You pulled a pen from your pocket and wrote the cross streets down before running out of the coffee shop.

Your feet sprinted across the sidewalk as you ticked off the increments of the mile you had to journey. A red light held your breath as you waited for the walk sign to turn green. You were almost to the cross streets that decorated the back of your hand. At the exact moment the crosswalk turned green, you sprinted across the intersection toward your goal. The sun was replaced by the light of the moon as you approached the street in an old neighborhood. All but on porch light was on and its light belonged to the last house on the left. With excitement bubbling in your chest, you eagerly approached the light that called to you. Your intuition told you that the owner of that little black book resided in that house. You stepped up the stone steps that led to an ornate green door. You hoped it wasn’t too late to be knocking as your knuckles tapped against the wood.

A set of footsteps resounded throughout the house, the noise finding its way to your ear drums. Slowly, the front door groaned open and revealed a young woman looking at you curiously.

“Hello,” she said almost like a question.

“Hi,” your voice came out quickly. “I found this book and I had this odd feeling that this was where I was meant to take it.”

The woman’s eyes grew wide as they fell upon the journal in your outstretched hands.

“Where did you find that?” she smiled.

“A book shop in town. Is it yours?” you inquired hopefully.

“No,” she shook her head.

“Oh,” your shoulders shrunk.

“But it looks an awful lot like my father’s. He had plenty of those and always wrote his initials on the first page.” the woman explained.

“What were his initials?” you asked, with an eagerness.

“M.A.P. but I highly doubt that is his journal. We lost all of his little black books in a fire a few years ago. Finding one of those would be near impossible.” She shook her head.

Without a word, you opened the book to the first page and handed it over to her. You watched as a smile spread across her face.

“Oh my gosh, this is his handwriting.” She stared at the scribbles with tears swelling in her eyes.

You got the sense that her father was no longer alive as she cherished the pages. You suddenly felt like you were invading a private moment and began to turn on your heal.

“Wait! Don’t go just yet.” Her voice beckoned you to stay. “I want to thank you for bringing this all this way.”

“Oh, it’s okay. It was the right thing to do.” You shrugged, once again turning to leave.

“Hold on, please. I will be right back.” The woman closed the door slightly as she wandered back into the depths of her home.

She emerged in the doorway with a sealed envelope in her hands. “Please, take this as a thank you. You’ve brought me something that I thought I would never see again. His memories are truly priceless. Thank you.”

You hesitated with the envelope in your hands, unsure of whether you were deserving of any type of reward. “You’re welcome, it wasn’t any trouble. Have a good night.”

“Thank you, again.” The woman called out to you as you turned to walk down the dark street once more.

A sense of satisfaction rested in your heart as you slowly journeyed back home. The envelope was tucked neatly into your coat pocket. You wished to savor opening it when you got home, perhaps with your forgotten cup of tea. Your keys rattled in the lock as you opened the door to your home for the final time that night. You hung your coat up and wandered over to the stove. As the kettle warmed, your fingers slid open the back of the envelope. Inside was a small picture of a man standing next to a bookcase. On the back of the photo were the initials M.A.P. You pulled a handwritten note from the envelope and with it, a small rectangular piece of paper fluttered to the floor. As you bent down to retrieve the piece of paper, your eyes fell upon the front of it. A check for twenty-thousand dollars was in your fingertips. Incredulous, you read the note that was in your other hand. The woman explained across the page that she would be eternally grateful for your act of kindness. She hoped that her check was enough of a reward for your journey. You smiled as the tea kettle whistled.

The little black book had gifted you a mysterious afternoon and rewarded you with twenty-thousand dollars. With that, you could by a lifetime worth of books to help bide your time. The next day, you headed back to the book shop and purchased your own little black book to journal into. On the first page, you sprawled your own initials across the page and taped the photograph of M.A.P. to the cover to remind you of the mysterious afternoon.