The Fourth Story
289 Words
The fourth notebook was black.
Not faded black, not charcoal, not gray—black, like the absence of light. The cover felt colder than the others, as if it had been left outside overnight. A symbol was etched into it with sharp, deliberate strokes: a triangle with a line through the center, the ends curling like hooks.
Marisol hesitated before touching it.
Ana noticed. “You okay?”
“No,” Marisol whispered. “But I’m going to open it anyway.”
She lifted the cover.
The first page was blank.
The second page too.
On the third page, ink exploded across the paper in jagged strokes. Her mother’s handwriting was almost unrecognizable—letters slanted, words overlapping, lines written so hard the paper had torn.
The story was about betrayal.
A friend who wasn’t a friend.
A helper who wasn’t helping.
A watcher who wasn’t human.
The protagonist—a teenage boy—trusted someone he shouldn’t have. Someone who smiled too easily. Someone who always appeared when he was alone. Someone who knew things he hadn’t told anyone.
Ana leaned closer. “This is… creepy.”
Marisol nodded, throat tight. “It feels like she was writing fast. Like she didn’t want to forget something.”
Or like she was being chased.
She flipped to the margins.
Her mother had written:
“La traición siempre viene de cerca.”
“Betrayal always comes from close.”
And beneath it:
“No confíes en quien te mira demasiado tiempo.”
“Don’t trust anyone who watches you too long.”
Marisol’s stomach twisted.
The shadow at the window.
Mr. Calderón’s warning.
The bracelet on the porch.
Someone was watching her.
And her mother had known this would happen.
- Writer
