The seventh lock is warm. I have not touched it, yet something waits behind the binding. Tonight, the Chronicle stirs.
April 4
The ink bled through the margins again. A name I had buried was written in reverse, in a language I never learned.
April 11
The book hummed last night. Not like a song—like a warning. Something old is returning. Something I once called by name.
April 18
The margin of page 17 bore a symbol I didn’t draw. Three circles interlocked. Beneath them, in ink too faint to see at first: “XVII: Seek the erased.”
April 25
It whispered a name I had buried: N-O-C-T-I-V-A-G-A-N-T. I do not remember writing it, but I cannot stop staring at the letters.
May 2
The Chronicle showed coordinates last night. I woke with these numbers on my palm: 51.5074° N, 0.1278° W. London. But the ink ran. What is buried there?