4th Day of the Fog Month
Backlund
Papa bought me this little book today. He said writing things down helps people "grow their thoughts." Aunt Melissa laughed and said I already think too much for someone my size. I don't know what that means, but I like the way she smiled when she said it.
Today something strange happened.
When I woke up, Aunt Melissa and Papa were talking very quietly in the sitting room. Grown-up quiet. The kind that sounds like secrets even when they don't want it to. I heard Mama humming, so I peeked out, and they stopped talking suddenly. Papa said they were discussing "philosophy." Aunt Melissa said it was "about balance, and remembering what's important."
I think they were talking about Uncle Klein.
They never say it outright, but every time his name is mentioned, the whole room feels… warm? Like when you sit too close to the lamp and the light touches your skin. I don't know why.
Later, Aunt Melissa found a paper someone dropped near the university. She said it "felt familiar." She gave it to Papa, and he folded it like it was precious. I don't understand all the words on it, but it said something about reason and faith. I spelled them wrong the first time in this diary. Aunt Melissa corrected them for me.
She's very smart. Papa says she sees things clearly even when they're complicated. But today, she looked… thoughtful. Like she heard something I couldn't.
I felt something too.
Just once.
When Papa said Uncle Klein's name.
It was like a quiet knock inside my head. Not loud. Not scary. Just… there. Like someone very, very far away remembered me.
I didn't tell Papa. He worries so much. Mama too. They already have so many things to think about—food, rent, work, the fog that won't go away.
But Aunt Melissa looked at me differently later. Not in a bad way. Just a little surprised. As if she guessed something without me saying it.
She sat next to me and helped me with my letters, and her hand was warm. Warmer than usual.
I think she knows more about Uncle Klein than she tells Papa.
I think Papa knows that too.
I think everyone is trying a little bit to pretend nothing is changing.
But something is changing.
Tonight, before bed, I whispered "Goodnight, Uncle Klein," even though he's far away and Papa says he's gone.
And for one moment—just a heartbeat—I felt the warmth again.
Like someone answered.
— Alice