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It looks an awful lot like a vault. A steel safe. Nothing wildly large, just a small nook in the wall. The weirdest thing of all, there is no code. No lock. Just a button.
It’s as though I intended for this to be found.
Goosebumps pimple my skin, and I press the green circle, hearing the spring mechanism before the vault easily swings open.
The cubby is small, and only one thing is shelved. Stepping forward, I seize thenicestbound manuscript among all my printed stories. The pages aren’t stapled together or in a three-ring binder. I must’ve glued the edges in the spine of a hardcase book, but it has no title. Still, I can tell this is my handiwork. Shimmery silver, green, pink, and purple glitter decorate the hardcover.
My heartbeat hasn’t slowed, and with a deep breath, I flip the cover and see the title page, more like a preface.
“Dear Unearthly Reader…” I begin to read the typed font. “One day, possibly millenniums from now when you discover this planet, I imagine you’ll find this story entombed beneath centuries of rubble and heartache.” My voice starts to shake a little. “If it’s buried with my fragile bones, likely you’ll think I’m the strangest creature you’ve ever seen. With my human arms and legs and feet. This story is not just so you’ll understand how often I’ve thought of you—that I’ve wondered what you’d be like…” Tears prick my eyes. “…and if your planet is far better than the one I’ve lived on.”
I choke up, but I push myself to keep reading out loud. “I want you to know who I am. Even if I’m gone.” Silent waterworks stream, but I read more strongly, “This is my story that I hope you’ll find and be able to read. And it’s his.”
I cover my mouth, my hand trembling.
“I couldn’t exclude him,” I read. “You’ll find out why soon enough. The story does not begin with my first breath on Earth. I’ve started at the part that matters the most to me. May you discover something of worth in this text; I hope it finds you well.” I rub at my wet cheeks, my voice cracking. “Somewhere far, far away…Luna Hale.” I squeak out my name.
I turn the next page, but I already know what this is.
I wrote a diary.
Staggering back into my globe chair, I sit and try not to sob on the pages.I wrote a diary.My body heaves in tearful, overcome waves. Before I even devour it whole, I hug the hardcase binding against my chest. It feels like I’m hugging her.
“Thankyouthankyouthankyou,” I hiccup out.
I’ve searched for her. I’ve cried for her. I’ve needed her. And now I’ve found a piece of her. Even if I don’t have my memories now, I havethis.Her words. Her heart.
When I gather my breath, I inspect the diary more, and I realize it hasoneviolet ribbon folded through the pages. I open it up on that bookmark.
It’s another preface to the Unearthly Reader. I start reading, “…I wasn’t sure I should continue, not after all that’s happened. But he’s a big reason why I’m not stopping.”
I wonder if this is the place in time where her fics leaked, and maybe she thought about stopping the diary like she stopped writing her stories.
I read, “If you ever find this, you should know there aregoodpeople on Earth. He’s worth knowing. He’s worth remembering.” I know she must be referring to Donnelly. “And when the world has decayed and all I’ve ever known has disappeared in time, you should know the very best of humankind is him.”
Tears brim again.
I didn’t have premonition, but I did want to leave my story behind. My story with Donnelly. Because I closed myself off to others and never shared as much as I wanted, but I felt safe enough to leave it behind for a future.
I just couldn’t have known it’d be left for myfuture. For me to find.
I read in a shaky voice, “Please, keep him alive.”
I will.
“I promise,” I say to myself. “I will.” With another breath, I read, “It’s always been easier to believe in you than anything else.”
It hits me hard, and I repeat it again, “It’s always been easier to believe in you than anything else.”
I’ve been hard on Original Luna. On myself. Frustrated and angry for not remembering the past in enough time, for being so mysterious and secretive and shut off, and my self-belief shrunk more than grew.
It’s always been easier to believe in you than anything else.
I want to always believe in myself.
Because writing this and finding this feels so, so unbelievable, and no sentient creature descended from an unknown galaxy to gift me the knowledge I craved.
This, all along, was just me.
