The leather cover of the diary felt cool and heavy in Serena’s hands, smelling faintly of dust and old paper.
She sat cross-legged on the floor of the hidden room, the rows of ghostly white dresses hanging above her like silent sentinels. When she turned to the first page, she had fully expected to read a chronicle of a great, sweeping romance—the kind of love story that would explain why a man like Harvey would spend years and millions of dollars trying to resurrect a dead woman.
She expected to find entries filled with sweet declarations, candlelight dinners, and praises of Harvey’s unparalleled devotion. She expected to feel a sting of inadequacy, the bitter pill of realizing she could never compete with a ghost.
Instead, the very first entry she read made her pause.
October 12th, 2
