Andrew's eyes went wide at his father's words.
"It's about the diary," his father said, his voice heavy.
Andrew froze, his stomach twisting. "The… diary?" he asked slowly, like he wasn't sure if he'd heard right.
His dad nodded, serious. "The one you've been keeping in your room."
Andrew's heartbeat spiked. How the hell did Dad know about that? Did he… read it?
Before he could even ask, his father sat down on the edge of the bed, looking like he was searching for the right words. For a moment, the silence stretched, making Andrew's skin prickle.
"I saw it lying on your desk a couple days ago," his father finally said. "At first I thought it was just some notebook. But when I saw the cover… I knew. I recognized it immediately."
Andrew leaned forward, tense. "Recognized it? What do you mean?"
His father let out a slow breath, rubbing his palms together like he was steadying himself. "Andrew, that diary you're holding—it isn't just a normal book. It's been in our family for a very long time. Longer than you can imagine. The things you've seen written inside it… they don't appear by accident."
Andrew blinked hard, his brain struggling to catch up. Dad knew about the strange writing? About how the diary almost seemed alive?
"I… I don't get it," Andrew whispered.
His father nodded slightly, like he expected that reaction. "When I was a boy, I used to hear stories from my grandfather. He said our family had carried this diary for generations, passing it down. According to those stories, the diary wasn't made in any ordinary way. It was summoned."
Andrew's throat tightened. "Summoned? From where?"
"From the future," his father said, his tone grim but certain. "Back then, people believed if they could gain even a glimpse of the future, they might be able to stop tragedy. They performed rituals, prayed, and somehow… the diary appeared. Since then, it's stayed with us. And it does something no normal book can—it writes warnings. Messages. Sometimes they're vague, sometimes clear. But never meaningless."
Andrew sat back, trying to process. Summoned from the future? Passed down like some cursed heirloom? The same diary that had written about Grace?
His father's expression darkened. "When I was your age, I found it too. I didn't believe in it at first. I thought the stories were nonsense. But then one day, the diary wrote something. A warning. It said someone close to me would suffer if I didn't act. I laughed it off." His voice cracked a little. "And because I ignored it… I lost someone I loved. Someone I can never get back."
Andrew's chest tightened. He wanted to ask who, but the look on his father's face made him stop.
After a long pause, his father continued, voice low. "That's when I realized—it doesn't lie. The diary doesn't always give the full picture, but the words matter. And now, it's your turn. You have it. Which means the responsibility is yours now."
Andrew looked over at the diary on his desk. Its plain cover seemed heavier than ever before.
"So… what it said about Grace," he murmured. "It's real?"
"Yes," his father said firmly. "But it isn't absolute. Think of it as a chance, not a sentence. A warning, not a chain. The future can change, Andrew. That's the point. It gives us the chance to fight fate."
Andrew let out a shaky breath. For some reason, instead of fear, he felt something else creeping in—determination. Maybe he wasn't crazy. Maybe this really was something bigger than him. Something he was meant to carry.
"Thank you, Dad," he said quietly. His voice came out steadier than he felt.
His father studied him for a moment before nodding. "Just promise me one thing. Don't ever take the words lightly. Even if you don't understand them right away, don't ignore them. Read carefully. And don't let fear control you."
"I promise," Andrew said.
His father looked tired as he stood. "Get some rest. The diary will write again when it wants to. Until then… live your life. But be ready."
When the door shut behind him, Andrew sat in silence. His eyes stayed locked on the diary, his thoughts racing.
For the first time, though, he didn't feel powerless. He felt like he was standing on the edge of something important.
He reached out, placed his hand on the worn cover, and whispered, "Whatever you show me next… I'll be ready."
The room was silent. The diary didn't move, didn't write. But Andrew could feel its presence, heavy and waiting.
And in his chest, a quiet vow burned: I won't make the same mistake Dad did. I won't lose Grace.
This wasn't the end. It was just the beginning.