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DETECTIVE JACK WINSTON returned home to make some notes about the conversations and discoveries of the last two days. Seated at the solid rolltop writing desk in the larger of the two rooms he rented from Mrs. Bradley, Winston checked to see whether the hair he had affixed to the desk lock was undisturbed. The strand remained in place. He fished the key from his waistcoat pocket, unlocked the desk, and retrieved his journal. He settled into the chair, already thinking about what he would write to clear his mind. He could not have explained why, but he was not surprised to find bubbly lines on the last page he had written on. If anything, he was relieved to see the now-familiar shapes of the letters and words, neither typed nor like his own slanted, flowing script. This wasn’t a dream. But still, how had they got there?
As I wrote earlier, my name is Riley, though I don’t know how much more to tell you about myself. It will sound unbelievable, but I found your journal. I too live in Vancouver.
Winston looked around the room. Two upholstered chairs—one for reading and the other for the rare visitor—and a small table sat near its centre, close enough to the coal stove to keep the occupants warm in the winter. His gaze fell on a bookcase filled with books he had brought with him from Toronto and a few new titles acquired in Vancouver in the few months since his move. The room appeared undisturbed. Mrs. Bradley would have mentioned if someone had sought entry.
The detective leaned forward to examine the desk, remembering the reassuring click the lock had made when he last put the journal away. He stood and walked to the door, swinging it open to find the lock undamaged. He retraced his steps, stopping to peer out the second-floor window. Riley—whoever he was—could not have accessed his room by this route. Winston moved back to the desk, brushing at the tingling sensation in his neck. He picked up the journal and continued reading.
What I am about to write will seem unreal, and I can’t explain it. I live in the twenty-first century.
Winston felt the hair rise on his arms. He flipped to the beginning of the book and fanned the pages. His handwriting appeared throughout. What kind of trick was this? What Riley had written was impossible.
I work in a museum, and your journal was among the papers I am reviewing for an exhibit. For me, your entries stop at May 12, 1897.
Winston looked at the date of the last page on which he had written: May 12.
When I first found your journal, the final entry was May 10. Somehow, the journal appears to exist for me just as it does for you. I can read what you write, and I think you can read what I write. I don’t know how or why.
I don’t know what else to share, other than to say I find this situation fascinating and incredible. And yet, I believe it to be true.
Sincerely,
Riley Finch
He stared at the words, a chill sweeping through him. How could he read the words of someone living in the future? And that person can read his words as he writes them? He let his hand hover over the journal, unsure whether he wanted to touch it again.
Winston considered himself open-minded—he needed to be to do his job—yet what he had just read described something unimaginable. If he was reading something written in a future century, what did it mean? How was this possible? Witchcraft? A spell? A ghost? Or simply someone playing a trick?
He pushed himself from his desk and paced the room. His journal had been locked. Yet Riley’s words were there, even if they didn’t make sense. Which left what?
He believed no more in witchcraft than in ghosts. A rational explanation existed. He just needed to find it.
Winston remembered an experiment he had read about. He turned his lamp to a high flame and set it down on his writing desk. From the top of the dresser in his bedroom he fetched a small pair of scissors and some tweezers. With the instruments clutched in his palm, he selected one of the Sherlock Holmes novels from the bookcase and brought it to the desk. Winston clipped the corner off a page. He gripped the paper triangle with the tweezers and held it over the flame, watching as it glowed, then curled, and disintegrated into ash. Winston leaned forward and inhaled the feather of acrid smoke, noting the shape and colour of its trail. Before he changed his mind, he snipped a corner from the journal and repeated his actions. A burned scrap of paper dropped from the tweezers to land beside the novel’s ash as he dimmed the lamp. He observed no noticeable difference between the two smells or how the papers had caught the flame. The two small piles of ash were similar in shape and appearance. The experiment failed to reveal anything special about the page from the journal.
DESPITE THE LATE HOUR, Winston’s mind was active, his thoughts bouncing between the case and the journal. He swung his feet from his bed into his slippers against the chill of the room and began pacing. The house was quiet around him.
Two questions troubled him. How had Huntington spent his final days, and was the nature of the journal truly as Riley suggested?
Did it connect him to the future? Was it possible? He needed to know. Winston sat at his desk and turned to a blank page. He took a deep breath and began to write.
Hello, Riley.
Thank you for introducing yourself and describing the situation. I don’t understand how or why we can both write in this journal, separated as we are by such an expanse of time. The idea is immensely interesting, though also unbelievable. Indeed, I can find no word that accurately captures how truly bizarre this is without refraining from what I would ordinarily consider exaggeration.
As you know, I am a policeman, and though my experience in the role has been brief, it has demonstrated to me that people tend to misrepresent the truth. Below I propose how to show that you live when you say you do. Tomorrow is May 13, 1897. You mention you work in a museum. I assume you have access to stored copies of the local daily newspaper of this era, the Vancouver Voice. I would greatly appreciate your reply with the headline for tomorrow’s evening edition. This will help me confirm that this rather remarkable phenomenon appears to be happening as you say.
Regards,
Detective Jack M. Winston
He moved from the desk to his reading chair and placed the journal on the small table beside him. As he smoothed his hand over the next blank page, he wondered how he would stay awake to see if Riley responded.