I didn't throw the diary again.
I couldn't.
The burned edges were still black, fragile, like they would crumble if I touched them too hard. I held it carefully, almost respectfully this time, and walked back inside. My hands were still shaking when I opened the drawer of my study table and placed it inside.
For a moment, I just stood there.
Staring.
As if the drawer was holding something alive.
Then I shut it.
I needed air.
I needed distance from everything I had just read.
I went to the bathroom, turned on the tap, and let the cold water run over my hands. Then my face. Then I stood under the shower longer than necessary, letting the water fall over me as if it could wash away the thoughts forming inside my head.
It didn't.
Nothing did.
After getting ready, I didn't think. I just moved.
My feet carried me to the cemetery.
To my father.
The air felt heavier than usual. The sky was pale, almost colorless. I walked straight to his grave and stood there, staring at his name carved into the stone.
I knelt down slowly.
And then the thought came.
Sharp. Sudden.
Why did my father never take me to my mother's grave?
I froze.
I tried to remember.
Birthdays. Festivals. Childhood trips. Family visits.
Not once.
Not a single time had he taken me to her grave.
Not once had he even mentioned where she was buried.
My chest tightened.
Was my mother really dead?
Or…
Something darker formed in my mind.
When my father wrote about the vampire… the woman… the one he loved…
Was that really my mother?
Or was she someone else?
Was she my stepmother?
Was the woman I grew up calling "Mom"… actually my real mother?
Or someone pretending to be?
My thoughts spiraled so fast I had to press my hands against the ground to steady myself.
"No… this is stupid," I whispered. "I'm overthinking."
But the question refused to leave.
I stayed there for a long time, staring at the grave, as if my father might answer me.
He didn't.
—
On the way back, I stopped near my neighbor's house.
I hadn't spoken to anyone properly since the funeral. But today… I needed answers.
Even if they were small ones.
I knocked.
An elderly woman opened the door. She recognized me immediately, her expression softening.
" Sweetheart… are you okay?"
I nodded quickly. "Aunt… I wanted to ask something."
"Come in—"
"No… I'll just ask here."
My voice sounded strange, impatient.
"Do you know… where my mother was buried?"
She blinked.
For a second, confusion crossed her face.
"Your mother…?"
"Yes. Her grave. Where is it?"
She hesitated.
"I… I don't know," she said slowly. "Your father handled everything back then."
My stomach dropped.
I tried another house.
Another neighbor.
Same answer.
I called two relatives.
One said they weren't present at the funeral.
Another said, "Your father didn't discuss it much."
No one knew.
Or no one wanted to say.
By the time I reached home, a heavy sadness had settled inside me. Not the loud kind. Not the crying kind.
A quiet, sinking emptiness.
I went straight to my father's room.
If no one knew…
Then maybe the answers were here.
I began searching.
Not carefully.
Not gently.
Desperately.
Drawers. Shelves. Files. Old boxes. Papers. Books. Everything.
I opened cupboards, flipped through documents, checked old envelopes, letters, even medicine packets.
Nothing.
No certificate.
No burial record.
No address.
No mention.
Just…
Memories.
Photos of my childhood.
Pictures of my mother holding me as a baby.
Me laughing, sitting in her lap.
Her smiling.
Always smiling.
I picked one photo.
She looked young.
Beautiful.
And familiar.
I stared harder.
My breath slowed.
Her face…
It looked like mine.
Same eyes.
Same cheekbones.
Same expression when she smiled.
I touched the photo lightly.
"She was my mother…" I whispered.
Not a stepmother.
Not someone pretending.
She was my real mother.
I knew it.
I could feel it.
There was no doubt left.
But one question remained.
Was she human?
Or… something else?
I suddenly laughed.
A dry, tired laugh.
"Vampire… seriously?"
It sounded ridiculous.
Like a story. A fantasy. Something written in fiction books, not in real lives.
For a moment, I almost convinced myself it was all nonsense.
Almost.
—
That night, I couldn't ignore the diary anymore.
I opened the drawer and took everything out.
My father's diary.
Old photographs.
Letters.
Small objects.
Anything connected to him.
I carried everything to my study table.
Then I switched off the main light.
Only the table lamp remained on, casting a soft yellow circle over the desk.
The rest of the room faded into darkness.
I sat down.
Took a deep breath.
And began reading.
One by one.
Page after page.
Entry after entry.
Some were ordinary — daily life, small worries, memories.
Some were emotional — about my mother, about losing her, about raising me alone.
And then…
The truth began appearing between the lines.
He wrote about her strength.
Her silence.
Her strange habits.
The way she avoided mirrors sometimes.
The way she healed faster than normal.
The way her eyes changed in the dark.
I felt cold reading it.
I didn't want to believe.
But I kept reading.
Because something inside me needed to know.
Needed clarity.
Needed the truth.
And slowly…
It became clear.
She was real.
Not a myth.
Not imagination.
My mother…
was a vampire.
My chest tightened.
"I don't believe this," I whispered.
But my eyes kept moving.
My mind resisted.
But my hands refused to stop.
I read more.
And more.
And more.
Until I reached the final pages.
The handwriting changed again.
Heavier.
Messier.
Like written under stress.
There was a date.
One day before his death.
My heartbeat slowed.
I read carefully.
Each word.
Each line.
And then I saw it.
A sentence.
Short.
But it hit harder than anything else.
"If anything happens to me… Jyoti must know the truth."
My fingers trembled.
I kept reading.
"She is not just human."
My breath stopped.
"She is not fully vampire either."
The lamp above flickered slightly.
My eyes locked onto the final line.
Written deeper.
Pressed harder.
As if it mattered more than anything else.
" Eliza is half human… half vampire."
The words blurred.
I blinked.
Read again.
Half.
Human.
Half.
Vampire.
My heart slammed violently against my ribs.
"No…"
I whispered.
"This… this isn't possible."
My hands went cold.
My legs felt weak.
The room seemed to spin.
I dropped back into the chair, staring at the page.
Half vampire.
Me?
The thought felt absurd.
Terrifying.
Impossible.
And yet…
Why would he write this?
Why would he lie?
And why…
Why would he write it just one day before he died?
My mind raced.
A sudden realization struck me like lightning.
Was this the reason?
Was this the truth that broke him?
Was this what caused his heart attack?
Did he discover something… about me… that terrified him?
My breathing became uneven.
My hands shook uncontrollably.
I stared at the diary, my father's final words burning into my mind.
The silence in the room felt suffocating.
Heavy.
Watching.
Waiting.
And for the first time…
I wasn't just afraid of the truth.
I was afraid of myself.
Because if this was real…
Then something inside me…
was not human.