~|𓆏|~ This time I won't find you ~|𓆏|~

~|𓆏| Dear diary.. |𓆏|~

The sparks from a nearby fire flickered through the air, dancing on the evening breeze like fleeting thoughts—bright and brief, yet full of life. A cut on my face stung, the sharp pain a reminder of the chaos that had unfolded around me. Yet, oddly enough, it was the least of my concerns. My vision was dimming rapidly, each breath shallow, my heart hammering against my chest in a desperate rhythm. But amidst it all, one question echoed relentlessly in my mind: Where was he when I needed him most? His absence felt like a weight too heavy to bear.

There must be a reason why humanity has yet to unlock the power to manipulate our timeline, to reshape the very years we inhabit. The fire, the chaos it wrought, and the endless ripple of consequences that followed—it all seemed to speak to a fundamental truth: Time is a force beyond our control. The unraveling of events, like a poorly spun thread, only serves to emphasize the fragility of our existence within it. Little did I realize then, that one of my grandfather's inventions—something that once seemed like nothing more than a curiosity—was about to shatter the boundaries of my understanding. It was about to alter my present, my past, and the course of my future in ways I couldn't yet fathom.

𝓢𝓬𝓪𝓻𝓵𝓮𝓽𝓽

✒〚2. January, 2031〛✒
Dear Diary,

I feel the need to write today, to put my thoughts somewhere. Earlier, I attended a celebration for my grandparents—honoring their long years together, their life of achievements. It was a wonderful occasion, filled with laughter, stories, and warmth. Yet, beneath the surface, I can't shake the sense of melancholy that clings to me like a shadow. They've both aged so much, and after over sixty years of marriage, I'm beginning to realize that their time is finite. I find myself wondering: What will life be like when they're no longer here? How will I cope when I can no longer seek their guidance, their comfort?

This is my third diary now, and I've decided I will write in it as often as I wish. I don't know what I hope to find in these pages—maybe answers, maybe just a way to hold onto the fleeting moments.

I am Scarlett Everglade, the sole granddaughter of a renowned scientist. I am the heir to his many inventions, his legacy. He had a passion for creating things that were ahead of his time, and I like to think I share that same spark. But I wonder: Will I ever live up to the incredible mind he was?

✒〚8. December, 2033〛✒
Dear Diary,

Today was fine, I suppose. I woke up to Schrödinger, my cat, curled up next to me. He's not quite alive, not quite dead—he's Schrödinger. (I'm laughing at my own joke, but it's almost 1 AM, so I suppose that's expected.) The snow outside is thick and unrelenting, the world blanketed in white. It almost feels like time has slowed down, as if the universe itself is holding its breath.

But then—this overwhelming wave of dread. It's an odd thing, this anxiety. It comes in waves, crashes into me without warning, and then recedes, leaving me with an unsettling emptiness. I'm sure it's just the stress of the holiday season, but it feels heavier than that. More personal. What am I even doing with my life?

✒〚2. April, 2037〛✒
Dear Diary,

I don't know how to begin this entry. My grandfather is gone. Both of my grandparents are now buried, and I am left with only memories—and a deep, painful void. The reading of his will brought a strange, almost mechanical sense of closure, and with it, the realization that I now own everything he once held dear. His legacy is mine, and I wonder if I'm worthy of it. I should feel grateful for the financial security his passing has provided, but instead, I find myself consumed by grief.

I no longer have anyone to share my thoughts with. No one to turn to for guidance.

And then, there's that blueprint. It's a strange thing to inherit, something he left behind without explanation. No name, just a few cryptic lines on the back. I can't bring myself to even look at it yet. Maybe I'm just not ready to understand.

For now, it can wait.

✒〚4. July, 2038〛✒
Dear Diary,

Summer has arrived with its relentless heat, and I find myself indoors, suffocating in the stillness of my own thoughts. Time seems to be slipping through my fingers, each day blending into the next without purpose. I'm 23 now. I should have figured out what I want by now, shouldn't I? Instead, I feel like I'm treading water, going nowhere.

I can't help but feel like I've disappointed my father again. He's always been so proud of my intellect, my drive—but I've failed to do anything meaningful. I think he wanted me to follow in his footsteps, to be someone important. But what if I'm not cut out for it? What if I never find my place?

I need more tea.

✒〚12. July, 2038〛✒
Dear Diary,

I found it. The missing piece of the blueprint! It was buried in my grandfather's old wallet, which I found by accident while cleaning up the house. Why didn't I think to look there sooner? I had forgotten all about it, but now, it's like a spark of something igniting within me. I can finally make sense of his design, piece together the fragments of his life's work.

But there's something... unsettling about it. This machine. It's not like anything I've ever seen before. Its description is so vague, so cryptic:

"Time is fragile, and so are we.
Careful where you choose to be."

It's not much, but it's enough to leave me feeling more unsure than ever. Still, I've resolved to try. If anyone can figure this out, it's me. For Grandpa. For his legacy.

✒〚13. August, 2038〛✒
Dear Diary,

After countless attempts—382, to be precise—I've finally replicated the blueprint. At first, the machine seemed broken, incomplete. But now, after weeks of trial and error, it feels... complete. I found all the missing parts, each one more elusive than the last. An extra gear, a gemstone from his late wife's necklace—the one he'd kept hidden for years.

The description of the machine is still haunting. Simple. But it lingers:

"Time is fragile, and so are we.
Careful where you choose to be."

I've decided I'll test it. I don't care if it's dangerous. I don't care if it's a prank. Grandpa wouldn't leave me something pointless—at least, that's what I keep telling myself. But when I stand before the contraption, the small, unmarked box with flashing lights and loud beeping, I wonder if I've made a mistake. Why did he leave this for me? What did he want me to do with it?

Tomorrow, I'll know more. I hope.

✒〚15. August, 2038〛✒
Dear Diary,

The box is driving me mad. I've spent hours trying to understand it, to make sense of its purpose. The frustration is consuming me, but I can't stop. I need answers. The more I work with it, the more questions arise. What was this machine really meant for? Why was I the one chosen to unlock its secrets? It's as if I've opened a door that should have remained closed.

I can't stop. I need to understand.