Written by: Kera M. P. Gotchy
Disclaimer: This story was created with the assistance of AI. References to real places are included only for realism and should not be interpreted as factual representation.
Part 1 — The Diary in the Dust
I lifted the cedar lid. The fan in the Sandgate Historical Society storeroom ticked rhythmically, counting the passing minutes, providing me minimal relief from the heat of the small room.
I logged the accession number in the record book, slid on my cotton gloves, and raised a weathered journal cinched with a leather strap from the handmade box. The scent of old wood, leather, and secrets overwhelmed me.
Almost reverently, I gently pulled back the leather strap and pulled back the cover, my excitement building. The first page was written in neat cursive: Summer of ’43. Patrols along Cabbage Tree Creek.
A line described moonlight breaking on the mangroves like shrapnel. As I turned the page, a pressed mangrove leaf fell from between the entries, breaking into smaller pieces as it landed on the hard concrete floor. This diary was more than a record; it was a fragile thread to the past.
I placed it gently on the cleared space of the desk andI typed as fast as my fingers allowed, trying to capture every word. The soldier described meetings near the jetty—he called it “the long finger into Bramble Bay,” a term that still fits the 350 odd metres of boards stretching toward the horizon.
I checked the clock, heard the freight train on the Shorncliffe line drag through the late afternoon. The building seemed to settle around me, the quiet making the air feel thick with anticipation. The last page stopped mid-sentence, covered by a large blob of dried ink: If we are discovered, everyth— Below the ink blot, two initials: J. L.
I whispered the initials aloud, testing the shape, as though they held a power I wasn’t prepared for.
Turning the back endpapers, a glued edge sealed long ago, tugged. I stopped. Conservation first. I photographed the cut-off line, logged the condition notes, and sealed the journal in an archival box for the night.
As I stepped outside onto Rainbow Street under the washed sky, I dialled the only number that still rang true for me.
“Ruth, it’s Emily. I found a wartime diary referring to secret meetings at the jetty. The last entry cuts off.”
“Don’t take it home,” Ruth warned. “And don’t fall in love with ghosts.”
“I’m just cataloguing.”
“Emily, you never just do anything.”
I hung up, the initials J. L. ticking in my head like the fan, its rhythm a reminder that there was something here I wasn’t meant to find. But I was already too deep.
See Part 2 here.
Read more stories from the Sandgate Guide print magazine here:
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