The day drifted by quietly, marked only by the sounds of wind rustling through the trees and the rhythmic ticking of the clock in the cabin's living room. When night finally descended, it brought with it a sense of calm that Alex hadn't felt in days. After dinner, he returned to his room with a clearer mind, ready to connect the fragments of what he had learned—about the cult, the forest, and the sacrifices.
Sitting at his desk, he tried to piece everything together, his thoughts circling one unanswered question: the lullaby. He could still hear its haunting tune echoing faintly in his memory, a melody too deliberate to be mere coincidence. What did it have to do with the cult's rituals? Was it a call, a warning, or perhaps something far darker?
He pondered for a long time, searching for connections, but the puzzle only grew more tangled. Finally, with a frustrated sigh, Alex thought, maybe the diary has something about it. His mother had recorded so much—her fears, her warnings, even obscure notes that hinted at hidden meanings. Perhaps the lullaby's secret was hidden between those worn pages.
But when he reached under his bed, his hand met only the cold surface of the wooden floor. He frowned and leaned lower, feeling around in the shadows. The diary wasn't there. It was supposed to be right in its usual place—tucked away, safe from sight.
A prickling unease crawled up his spine. Alex stood and began searching the room methodically: under the pillow, behind the desk, even among the folded clothes in his bag. Nothing. The drawer, the shelves, the corners of the room—all empty. His pulse quickened as dread took root in his chest.
The diary was gone.
The realization struck like a blow. He straightened slowly, his breath shallow. Someone had been in his room. Someone had taken it.
The silence of the cabin suddenly felt alive—heavy, watchful. The shadows seemed to stretch longer, pressing close as if listening. Alex's throat tightened. The diary contained things no one else should see—details about the cult, the rituals, the escape of his parents. If it had fallen into the wrong hands…
He froze, glancing toward the door, listening. The faint creak of the cabin's wooden frame echoed through the hall, subtle yet unnerving.
No… not tonight, he told himself, forcing his shaking hands to still. I'll find it tomorrow.
But deep inside, he already knew: the diary hadn't just gone missing. It had been taken—by someone who wanted its secrets.
Lying on his bed, staring up at the dark ceiling, Alex's mind refused to settle. The missing diary circled through his thoughts like a storm, every possibility darker than the last.
Did Grey take it? The question rose unbidden, curling through his mind like a whisper he didn't want to believe. Grey hadn't shown any reason to—it didn't fit—but still, something about his quiet behavior since they'd come here made Alex uneasy. Maybe Grey had found the diary, read its secrets, and hid it to protect him. Or… maybe to protect himself.
Alex turned on his side, restless beneath the dim light spilling in through the window. The air felt heavier now, thick with suspicion. But then another memory surfaced, sharp and cold—a few days ago, that strange sensation of being watched. The subtle sound of footsteps behind him when he walked through the forest path. Someone had been following him.
Was that person the one who stole the diary while no one was home?
He replayed that moment in his mind—the faint rustle of leaves, the way the feeling lingered long after he'd reached the safety of the cabin. It hadn't been paranoia. Someone had been there. And now, the diary was gone.
Alex's breathing slowed, exhaustion seeping into his tense body as his thoughts began to blur at the edges. Despite his unease, sleep crept in quietly, catching him mid-thought. His last conscious idea flickered like a fading candlelight: Whoever took it… they know now.
Then, finally, darkness claimed him.
The next morning, sunlight streamed softly through the curtains as Alex stirred awake. The memories of the missing diary returned immediately, a faint ache lingering in his chest. He thought about confronting Grey but quickly dismissed the idea. Asking directly about the diary could raise suspicion—if Grey didn't know about it, it might sound strange, and if he did… Alex wasn't ready for those answers yet.
Still, he needed to know more. There were questions that had weighed on him for years, questions about his parents and their past. It felt safer to start there—to understand who they were, why they left, and what really bound them to this place. Perhaps in their story, he might find a clue to everything that was happening now.
Sitting up, Alex decided silently: I can't ask about the diary, but I can always ask about them—their history, their lives before this place turned dark.
With that determination, he got out of bed and began preparing for the day, quietly rehearsing how to bring it up without making Grey retreat. It wasn't just curiosity driving him anymore—it was need. The truth about his family felt closer than ever, hidden just beneath the surface, waiting for the right question to bring it into light.
At breakfast, the morning light spilling softly across the wooden table, Alex and Grey ate quietly. The gentle clinking of cutlery was the only sound until, almost suddenly, Alex looked up and asked, "Grey… why did my mother run away from here with my father—and never come back?"
Grey froze mid-bite, the question hitting harder than Alex had expected. He coughed, choking slightly on his food, then looked at Alex with wide eyes. "Why… why do you ask that?"
Alex tried to sound casual, though his curiosity was sharp and genuine. "I just want to know," he said. "You don't really talk about her much."
Grey exhaled slowly, setting his spoon down. For a few moments, his gaze drifted toward the window, as if searching the past for a version of the story he could tell. "Well," he began softly, "your mother… she was a bit of a rebel back then. Our grandparents—your great‑grandparents—were strict, traditional people. They didn't like your father or his family at all. They never approved of your parents' relationship."
He paused, his voice clearing, before continuing. "At first, your father's side tried to keep things civil. But over time, even they turned against the idea of the two of them being together. I don't know all the details; I was still young then. But when it became too much for her—too many rules, too many fights—your mother and father ran away. They wanted a life of their own, away from here."
As Grey spoke, his tone shifted subtly, losing its former steadiness. His words grew slightly shaky, as if wrapped around something left unsaid. Alex noticed it immediately—the way Grey's fingers fidgeted with his spoon, the way his eyes avoided his. It was clear there was more to the story.
But Alex didn't press further. He let the silence settle between them, heavy but strangely calm. Some truths, he realized, revealed themselves only when they were ready—no matter how much one wanted to drag them into the light.