The diary was already old when Elias found it.
Leather cover.
Cracked spine.
Pages yellow enough that he was scared to turn them too fast.
It had been hidden inside the wall of the house he just bought, tucked behind loose wood in the upstairs bedroom like someone had meant for it to disappear.
The first page said:
June 4th, 1926
My mother says I am too curious for my own good.
Elias smiled.
That was how it started.
He read one page.
Then five.
Then twenty.
Her name was Clara.
She was twenty-one.
She hated piano lessons, loved thunderstorms, and wanted to leave the town more than anything.
She wrote about little things.
Her sister stealing ribbons.
Her father being strict.
A boy named Henry who kept bringing her flowers even though she clearly did not like him.
Elias hated Henry immediately.
Which was stupid.
Henry had been dead for decades.
Probably.
Hopefully.
Still.
Every night Elias sat in bed and read Clara’s diary like it was something sacred.
And slowly, she stopped feeling dead.
She felt real.
Too real.
He knew how she took her tea.
Knew she hated being called Claire.
Knew she bit the inside of her cheek when she lied because she wrote about her mother catching her doing it.
He knew she wanted someone to love her enough to choose her over everything.
That line bothered him for days.
Because Elias had this ridiculous thought.
I would have.
He should have stopped reading then.
He didn’t.
One night, after a bad day at work and too much whiskey, Elias turned to a blank page in the back.
Then grabbed a pen.
You would’ve hated Henry. He sounds annoying.
He stared at it afterward.
Then laughed at himself.
“Perfect,” he muttered. “I’m talking to dead women now.”
He shut the diary and went to sleep.
The next morning, there was writing underneath his.
Different handwriting.
Neat.
Slanted.
Faded brown ink.
Who are you?
Elias stared at the page for so long his coffee went cold.
“No.”
He touched the words.
They didn’t disappear.
His heart started pounding.
Slowly, he wrote beneath them.
Elias.
He waited.
Nothing happened.
Then, right in front of him, ink began bleeding across the page.
Letter by letter.
That is a strange name.
Elias dropped the pen.
“What the hell.”
Another line appeared.
And you still have not answered me. Who are you?
He grabbed the pen again.
I live in your house.
The response came faster.
My house?
Not anymore.
A pause.
Then:
What do you mean?
Elias stared at the date written on the first page.
1926.
His throat went dry.
Clara, what year is it for you?
The answer took longer.
1926.
He sat back.
“No fucking way.”
The diary remained open between his hands.
Then another sentence appeared.
What year is it for you?
He hesitated.
Then wrote:
2026.
Nothing.
For almost two full minutes.
Then finally:
That is not funny.
Elias laughed.
Actually laughed.
Not because it was funny.
Because what else was he supposed to do?
After that, they wrote every night.
At first, Clara thought he was insane.
Then she thought she was insane.
Eventually they stopped trying to understand it.
Elias told her about phones.
Cars.
Planes.
The internet.
She told him about dancing in the kitchen when nobody was home.
About sneaking outside barefoot after midnight.
About hiding books beneath her mattress because her father thought women read too much.
Elias became obsessed with those pages.
With her.
He started carrying the diary everywhere.
He stopped going out as much.
Stopped answering certain calls.
He hated when she mentioned Henry.
He came by again today.
Elias immediately wrote:
Why?
He asked if I would walk with him Sunday.
And you said no.
A pause.
I have not answered yet.
Elias gripped the pen tighter.
Tell him no.
Her response came almost immediately.
You are very demanding for a man who has not technically been born yet.
Elias smiled despite himself.
Tell him no.
Why?
His jaw tightened.
Because he hates the idea of Henry touching her.
Because he hates that somebody else gets to stand near her.
Because Clara lives almost one hundred years away and somehow Elias still feels like she belongs to him.
He wrote:
Because I don’t like him.
You do not know him.
I know enough.
There was a long pause.
Then:
Are you jealous?
Elias stared at the word.
Then wrote honestly.
Yes.
The ink appeared slowly this time.
Good.
He froze.
Then smiled.
“Clara.”
He could almost picture her smiling too.
The writing continued.
I wanted you to be.
That night, Elias didn’t sleep.
Things got worse after that.
Or better.
Depending on how stupid you wanted to be about it.
They wrote constantly.
Clara began leaving pages for him before bed.
Elias started waking early just to see them.
One morning she wrote:
I dreamed about you.
His chest tightened.
What happened?
I do not remember.
Liar.
You are rude.
You like me.
A long pause.
Then:
Unfortunately.
Elias smiled like an idiot.
He turned the page.
At the top, Clara had written something hours earlier.
Sometimes I wonder what it would have been like if you were here.
He stopped breathing.
Slowly, he wrote:
I think about it constantly.
The response appeared.
You do?
Yes.
He hesitated.
Then kept writing.
I think about meeting you. I think about taking you away from that house. I think about you never having to ask permission to go anywhere again.
His hand shook.
I think about Henry showing up and realizing you’re already mine.
He stared at the word.
Mine.
Too late to take it back.
The ink appeared.
Yours?
Elias swallowed.
Yes.
Nothing happened for a while.
He started regretting it.
Then:
I think I would like being yours.
Elias closed his eyes.
That sentence ruined him.
Completely.
After that, there was no pretending.
He loved her.
He loved a woman who had lived one hundred years ago.
A woman he had never touched.
Never heard.
Never seen outside of one faded photograph he found tucked between two pages.
Clara standing beside the house.
Long dress.
Dark hair.
Serious expression.
Beautiful.
Elias stared at that photo way too often.
Then one night, Clara didn’t write.
He waited.
Nothing.
The next morning.
Nothing.
By evening, Elias was pacing.
“Come on.”
He wrote:
Clara?
No response.
Clara, answer me.
Still nothing.
His chest started hurting.
He flipped through the older entries frantically.
Then stopped.
There was a page he had never noticed before.
October 17th, 1926
His stomach dropped.
Clara had written only one sentence.
Father says I am to marry Henry before winter.
Elias went cold.
“No.”
He grabbed his pen.
No.
Nothing.
Clara.
No response.
You are not marrying him.
Still nothing.
His breathing turned uneven.
It didn’t make sense.
She had been dead for a century.
Whatever happened had already happened.
He knew that.
His body didn’t care.
You hear me? You are not his.
The ink suddenly appeared beneath it.
Shaky.
Messier than usual.
Elias?
His eyes closed.
Relief hit so hard it almost made him dizzy.
I’m here.
He is making me.
Elias stared at the words.
Something dark twisted in his chest.
Then leave.
Where would I go?
He looked around the bedroom.
Her bedroom.
His now.
Then he wrote:
To me.
A pause.
Elias.
I mean it.
His hand moved faster.
I don’t know how. I don’t care. Run. Hide. Do anything. But don’t marry him.
The writing appeared slowly.
You cannot come for me.
Elias’s jaw clenched.
I know.
That was the worst part.
He could love her.
Want her.
Need her.
And still never reach her.
Another sentence appeared.
I wish you could.
Elias pressed his forehead against the diary.
For the first time since this started, he cried.
Not much.
Just enough to make him angry at himself.
Then he wrote one last thing.
If there is any way to get to you, Clara, I will find it.
The ink appeared almost immediately.
Promise?
He didn’t hesitate.
I promise.
The room went cold.
Not gradually.
Instantly.
Elias lifted his head.
The lamp beside him flickered.
Once.
Twice.
Then went out.
From behind him came the sound of someone breathing.
Elias went completely still.
His heart slammed against his ribs.
Slowly, he turned.
A woman stood near the bedroom door.
Barefoot.
Long white nightgown.
Dark hair spilling over her shoulders.
Her eyes were wide.
Terrified.
Beautiful.
Elias couldn’t breathe.
Neither could she.
For a second, they just stared at each other.
Then the diary slipped from his hands and hit the floor.
The woman looked at it.
Then back at him.
Her lips parted.
“Elias?”
His entire body went weak.
He crossed the room before he could think.
Clara barely had time to gasp before his hands were on her face.
Warm.
She was warm.
Real.
His forehead pressed against hers.
“You’re here.”
Clara started crying.
“So are you.”
Elias laughed shakily.
Then pulled her against him so hard she made a tiny sound.
His arms locked around her.
Like she might disappear.
Like time might realize its mistake and take her back.
Clara clutched his shirt.
He buried his face in her hair.
“You’re not going back.”
She pulled back enough to look at him.
“Elias—”
“You’re not.”
His voice cracked.
Possessive.
Desperate.
Absolutely serious.
“I waited one hundred years for you without even knowing I was waiting.”
Clara stared at him.
His thumb brushed beneath her eye.
“So no.”
He leaned closer.
“You’re staying with me.”
Clara’s mouth trembled into a smile.
“And if time wants me back?”
Elias looked at her like the idea offended him personally.
“Then time can fight me for you.”
Clara laughed through her tears.
And Elias kissed her.
Finally.
One hundred years late.
But still hers.
Still his.
And downstairs, forgotten on the floor, the diary turned one final page by itself.
A new sentence appeared.
October 18th, 1926
Clara Vale disappeared sometime after midnight. She was never found.
apparently time itself underestimated how possessive elias was going to be.