ALLE
Two days after that disaster of a dinner, I'm sitting by the window in Winter's childhood room with stolen goods in my lap.
The journal is small but thick—over three hundred pages—and I've been rationing it like a drug addict trying to make their fix last. Reading it in stolen moments when I'm sure no one will interrupt, hiding it under my mattress whenever footsteps approach.
I tell myself I'm reading it for tactical advantage. Knowledge is power, information is ammunition, understanding your enemy makes them easier to destroy.
But that's bullshit and I know it.
I'm reading it because I'm fascinated, because seven-year-old Winter's words are pulling me in deeper than I want to admit, because his handwriting is so f*****g organized and mature it doesn't seem possible for a child.
