The Grandmother's Journal

In my dead grandmother's attic, I found a leather-bound journal. The first entry

was dated yesterday. She'd been dead three years. Her shaky handwriting detailed my breakfast,

my shirt, my phone argument. Things she couldn't possibly know. I flipped to

future dates: my job interview, a date with Marcus, my father's hospital

visit. Then, the final entry: 'I stopped writing.' My blood went

cold. Dozens of blank pages followed. Nothing after those chilling words.

I tried burning it. Throwing it away. Burying it. But it always

reappeared on my nightstand, under my pillow. This morning, it was open