There was a loud, insistent knock at the door just as I was putting dinner on the table for the kids, not expecting anyone. Standing there was a woman I’d never seen, mid-30s, holding a beat-up leather journal. Her eyes were red-rimmed and darted nervously past me into the house, like she was looking for someone specific inside. “Is… is Clara here?” she asked, her voice trembling slightly, barely a whisper. The smell of burnt garlic toast filled the air behind me, a sudden, sharp contrast to the growing dread in my stomach.
My mind raced, trying desperately to place this stranger. Clara was *at* her book club, a block away, like she was every Tuesday. “No, she’s not,” I said slowly, trying to keep my voice steady and my expression blank. “She’s out. Can I help you with something?”
The woman didn’t answer my question. She just gripped the worn leather journal tighter, her knuckles white against the dark cover. “She was supposed to meet me,” she whispered again, her voice cracking. “She promised me she would be here by six tonight.”
Meet her? Here? By six? My hand instinctively went to the doorknob, ready to shut this bizarre encounter down. “Look, I don’t know who you are or why you think Clara is meeting anyone *here*,” I said, my voice low and hardening with suspicion. “You have the wrong address.”
She held up the journal, and on the cover, in faded ink, were Clara’s initials entwined with her name.
👇 *Full story continued in the comments…*…*A chill ran down my spine despite the heat of the burning garlic toast. How could this woman have Clara’s journal? “Where did you get that?” I demanded, my voice sharper now.
The woman flinched. “It… it belongs to me, too. Clara and I… we co-wrote it, years ago. It’s… important. It has things in it that people can’t see.” She looked around nervously again. “Did she say anything about… the experiment?”
Experiment? Clara hadn’t mentioned any experiment, certainly not one involving a co-written journal with a stranger. My head was spinning. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Clara doesn’t… She’s a librarian. She likes gardening. There’s no experiment.”
The woman’s eyes widened, a flicker of something like fear – or recognition – flashing within them. “A librarian? Gardening? No, no, that’s not… right. This isn’t her life. Not anymore. Not since the paradox.”
“Paradox?” I repeated, utterly confused. “Look, you need to leave. I’m calling the police if you don’t.”
I began to close the door when she thrust the journal towards me. “Please,” she begged, her voice now pleading. “Read this. The last entry. She wrote it to you. You need to know the truth, before it’s too late.”
Hesitantly, I took the journal. It felt strangely warm in my hand. The woman stepped back, a single tear tracing a path down her cheek. “Find her,” she said softly. “The real her. Before they take her back.” And then, she turned and disappeared into the twilight.
Back inside, the burnt toast forgotten, I opened the journal. The first few pages were filled with teenage dreams and silly poems, clearly written by Clara. But as I flipped through, the handwriting changed, becoming more erratic, the content darker, hinting at scientific theories and impossible possibilities. Finally, I reached the last entry. It was written in Clara’s familiar hand, but the words… the words were terrifying:
*“They’re resetting me. I can feel it. I’m losing the memories of the other timelines. This version of me is happy, but she doesn’t know. She doesn’t know about the experiment, about the risks, about *us*. Tell him, [My Name], that it’s all real. That the paradox is collapsing. Tell him to find the nexus point. It’s in the garden. The blue rose bush. He has to stop them before they wipe me clean. He has to remember. I love you, always. In every life.”*
I rushed to the garden, heart pounding. The blue rose bush, a recent gift from Clara, stood in the fading light. Frantically, I began digging, tearing through the soil. My fingers brushed against something hard, cold. I pulled it out. It was a small, metal box. Inside, nestled amongst cotton wool, was a USB drive.
I knew, with a certainty that defied logic, that this was it. This was the key. This was Clara’s reality, the truth hidden beneath layers of manufactured normalcy. I ran back inside, the journal clutched in one hand, the USB drive in the other. The kids were still at the table, oblivious, waiting for dinner. But my life, and Clara’s, had just been irrevocably changed. The real Clara was out there, somewhere lost in time. And I had to find her.
