LETTERS TO NO ONE

CHAPTER 1: The Beginning of Words.

Minutes passed. The silence stretched on. No reply came.

She let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. It was just her, her pen, and the strange, unsettling feeling that had settled inside her chest.
But as she prepared to close the notebook, something strange happened. The words she'd written in her last letter—"When does it get better?"—shifted, faintly, as if the page itself had been altered.
She leaned in closer, her eyes scanning the lines. The letters hadn't changed, not in the usual sense. But there was a subtle shift—almost imperceptible. It was as though they had been rewritten, reworded.
"Maybe soon," it now said. And beneath it, the tiniest scrawl of another word.
"Trust."
Amara's heart skipped a beat.
Someone—or something—was out there.
Amara's hand hovered over the page. She blinked rapidly, her mind struggling to catch up with what had just happened. "Trust?" She whispered the word aloud, as if saying it would make more sense, but it didn't.
Her fingers were cold against the notebook's worn edges. The room felt suffocating, and the unsettling feeling that had taken root in her chest was growing—like something or someone was just beyond her reach, waiting, watching.
She couldn't shake the feeling that she wasn't alone in the room. The shadows on the walls seemed to shift, stretching unnaturally, as if they were reaching for her.
Still, she couldn't tear her eyes away from the notebook. "Maybe soon?" She whispered to herself again, trying to make sense of the cryptic message. When does it get better? She had asked. Maybe soon—but what did that mean? What was supposed to get better?
Her mind raced to a million possible explanations. Was someone in the house? Had her father somehow found her notebook and decided to leave a cryptic message? No, she quickly dismissed that thought. He was still at work. And even if he were home, he wouldn't be scribbling notes in her private journal.
"Could it be...?" Her voice trailed off as she thought about her mother. Amara had read somewhere that grief could make you feel like the past was alive, that memories could feel so real they almost seemed like present-day occurrences. But this? This was different. This felt tangible.
Amara glanced at the clock—it was almost seven. The sun had disappeared completely now, and the only light in the room came from the faint glow of her desk lamp. She glanced again at the notebook, her breath catching when she saw something new. A sentence had appeared under the word "Trust me."
"I'll help you."
Her heart skipped a beat. The handwriting was not hers, but it looked... familiar. Was this a trick? Was someone playing with her, sending cryptic messages just to get a rise out of her? Or was something else at play?
The question swirled in her mind, but it was quickly replaced by something else—a pang of loneliness.
She was so used to being alone, to being the silent observer of her own life, that the thought of someone truly seeing her, truly helping her, was foreign. The silence of her house, the empty spaces left by her mother's absence, had created an invisible barrier between her and the world. Now, these words, appearing out of nowhere, seemed to crack that barrier open.
But was it a crack or a trap?
Amara stood up suddenly, feeling the urge to act, to do something. Her legs felt weak as she moved to the window, looking out into the dimming street below. The world outside seemed to pulse with the same eerie silence that had taken over her room. No cars, no voices, just the rustling of leaves in the breeze.
She felt dizzy, like she was caught in some limbo between her past and whatever was happening now. She stared at the screen, then at the notebook in her hands. The words "I'll help you" still lingered in her mind. Who could it be? Could it be someone who knew about her pain, someone who was reaching out in a way no one else had?
Amara sat back down at her desk, her mind whirling. She didn't know if she was more afraid of the answer or of not finding one at all.
With trembling fingers, she wrote again.
"Who are you?"
Amara sat in the dim light, staring at her words on the page. Who are you? She had written the question with trembling hands, but now it seemed almost trivial. Who was she expecting to answer? It felt like a moment of curiosity, not panic, but still, there was something undeniably compelling about it.
She looked around the room again. Nothing had changed. The familiar surroundings—her desk, the worn notebook, the dim glow of her lamp—felt unchanged, yet something in the air was different. The silence was thick with anticipation, as if the room was holding its breath.
Her fingers rested lightly on the page. Was she imagining this? The thought lingered in her mind, but deep down, she knew it wasn't just her imagination. The words that had appeared—I'm here—had been real. And now, the question she had written out had been answered in a way she hadn't expected.
The candle flickered softly, casting shadows that danced lightly on the walls. Her phone buzzed , breaking the stillness. It was a message from her father.
"Dinner is ready. Come down now."
Amara stared at the screen for a moment, then looked back at the notebook. She felt the oddest sense of indecision. Part of her wanted to drop everything, rush downstairs, and forget about the strange writing. But another part—the part that had always felt a longing for something beyond the ordinary—couldn't let go of what had started here.
She stood up, moving toward the door, but stopped midway. The notebook seemed to call to her, its mysterious energy tugging at her thoughts. Who was answering her? She couldn't ignore it. Not yet.
Her heart skipped a beat. Trust? What did that mean? It felt like an invitation, like something or someone was extending a hand, urging her to take a leap. The words were simple, but there was a weight to them that she couldn't quite place.
She took a deep breath and turned away from the door, walking back to the desk. The room was quieter now, and yet, the air felt charged, like something was waiting to happen. She glanced once more at the clock. Eight o'clock. There was time.
Her fingers hovered over the notebook again, hesitant, but the curiosity—no, the need for answers—pushed her forward. She wrote quickly.
"Why are you talking to me?"
The pen was barely back in her hand before new words appeared, almost as if they were waiting to be written.
"Because you need me."
Amara froze, her breath caught in her throat. She wasn't sure if it was the simplicity of the answer or the implication that something deeper was at play, but it hit her with force. Needed? By whom? For what?
The candlelight flickered again, casting shadows across the page. The words felt like they carried significance—like this was the beginning of something, not the end.
She glanced at her diary, which was still lying open on the desk beside her notebook. The leather cover looked worn, the pages marked with years of memories, thoughts, and reflections from both her mother and grandmother. Amara had always felt a connection to it—like it held pieces of the past that might help her understand the present.
Her fingers brushed the pages gently, wondering if there were more answers hidden in the diary. It felt like the right moment, as if her grandmother or mother's presence was guiding her.
As she opened the diary, something caught her eye. The handwriting—her grandmother's script—was visible on a page near the back. Amara scanned the words quickly, and her breath hitched. There, near the edge of the page, was a single sentence:
"You are chosen, Amara."
Her pulse quickened. The words were unmistakable, and they resonated deep within her. Had this been her grandmother's advice, or was it a message from someone—something—else?
She returned to the notebook, picking up her pen again with renewed determination. The tension in the room was palpable now, as if the air itself was charged with waiting answers.
"Chosen? For what? Who are you?"
The page remained still. But Amara could feel it—an answer was on its way. She just had to wait.
Amara's hand hovered over the notebook, the ink still fresh from her last question. She swallowed hard, her heart pounding in her chest. She could feel the weight of her thoughts pressing on her, urging her to keep going.
The words she had written felt almost too personal, too revealing. She was asking herself that why she is not getting her answer. something she wasn't sure she was ready to understand.
The silence in the room was thick, almost oppressive. The flickering candlelight seemed to dance nervously in the stillness, casting shadows that seemed to move on their own.
Amara closed her eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath. Who are you? She wrote again.
But as her pen hit the paper, something unexpected happened. Instead of the words she had written, a new line appeared before her eyes. It wasn't hers, not at all.
"I am your diary, Amara."
Her stomach dropped. What? The words seemed to echo in her mind, repeating themselves in the silence, as if daring her to believe them.
Amara blinked, she was confused as she stared at the response. It was impossible. The diary had never spoken to her before, never had a life of its own. But these words felt real. They felt alive.
She shook her head, trying to make sense of it. Your diary? How can that be?
She closed the notebook in disbelief, pressing her palms to her temples. Could she have been imagining this all along? The grief, the loneliness—it all weighed on her, clouding her judgment. But there was something in her gut, some sense that this was real, that something strange and significant was unfolding before her.
Amara opened the notebook again, the words still lingering on the page. "I am your diary, Amara."
She wrote, more urgently now.
"How is that possible? You're just a book. A diary."
Before she could even finish the thought, new words appeared, as though they had been waiting for her question.
"I was once your grandmother's. Then your mother's. And now I'm yours. I've always been with you, Amara."
Her breath caught. Her mind raced. Her grandmother's? Her mother's? She had always known the diary had belonged to her grandmother, then her mother, and now it was hers. But never had it felt like this—alive, connected, aware of her in a way that went beyond ink on paper. She had found it from basement.
"But why and how? How do you speak to me? How a dairy can speak or write on its own while it has no life ?" She wrote, the urgency rising in her chest. There was too much unknown, too much to grasp.
The answer came quickly, as if it had always been waiting.
"Because you need to remember. To know the truth."
The words were simple, but the weight of them settled heavily on Amara's shoulders. She felt as though a door had been opened, a door to something that had been hidden from her for far too long.
As she sat there, her mind spinning with questions, Amara could feel the presence of something—someone—watching over her. The room felt warmer now, less tense, like a burden had been lifted just a little. Still, the mystery remained. And Amara wasn't sure whether she was scared or relieved, but she knew one thing for certain.
Amara sat frozen, her eyes wide with disbelief as the words continued to appear on the pages of her notebook. She had just written a question, asking for the truth—who was answering her letters? Who could possibly know her thoughts, her pain, so intimately? Is it her futureself?
The reply came quickly, like an echo in the silence:
"I am Nathaniel. An angel. The protector of the diary."
Amara's breath hitched. An angel? It didn't make sense. It couldn't make sense. But something in the way the words appeared, the calm certainty of them, made her pause. The room felt heavier, as if something had shifted, something unspoken had entered the space.
"I'm your protector," the next words read. "I will guide you, Amara." You will not be alone."
Her fingers hovered over the page, hesitant. She didn't know what to think. This was insane, wasn't it? An angel? A protector? Was it possible to believe in something so impossible?
And yet, there was a strange comfort in the words. They felt real. More real than anything she'd known in a long time. She hadn't realized how desperately she'd wanted someone to understand her, to see her, until now.
"Why me?" she wrote, her hand shaking slightly as she asked the question that had been on her mind since the first reply.
The answer came swiftly.
"Because you are choosen as a guardian of this dairy, and you are not alone. I will protect you. I am with you as you own me, Amara. From now on, we are linked. You will never be left in the dark."
Amara blinked, feeling both comforted and overwhelmed. This connection, this strange bond she now shared with Nathaniel, was more than she could comprehend. The idea of a protector, someone who would always be there for her—was that even possible?
"I don't understand," she wrote, the words flowing from her with a mixture of confusion and curiosity. "How can you protect me? How can this be real?"
The reply came again, more serene this time.
"Trust me," Nathaniel wrote. "I am here. I always have been."
Amara's thoughts raced. There was a part of her, a deep, fearful part, that wanted to shut the notebook, walk away, and pretend this had never happened. But there was another part—something deeper—pulling her in. Something in her wanted to believe him, wanted to believe that she wasn't alone, that maybe, just maybe, things could change.
But the question remained: Was this real? Was Nathaniel real?
"Why I am choosen?" she asked again, her voice barely above a whisper, as if the diary could hear her doubts.
The response came almost immediately.
"Because your mother owned it before and you are more than you know, Amara. You've always been special. Your strength is waiting to be unlocked."
Her heart pounded in her chest. The weight of his words settled in her mind. Could it be true? Was there something inside of her, something waiting to be awakened?
A new sense of resolve began to grow within her. Maybe, just maybe, this was the start of something incredible. She wasn't sure how or why Nathaniel had appeared in her life, but she was certain of one thing: Her world had shifted, and she was no longer the same person who had picked up that notebook hours ago.
She closed the book gently, as though afraid of breaking the fragile connection. The silence of her room felt different now. Less oppressive. More... hopeful.
"I will learn to trust you, Nathaniel," she whispered to the empty room, her fingers gently tracing the cover of the diary.
And for the first time in a long while, she felt like there was a glimmer of light in the darkness.