The DiaristSlender, swirling tendrils of evening mist stretched like eerie tentacles of the coming night over the half-open sash of the window, creeping into the room and sending a chill shiver through the body of the writer who was sitting facing a mirrored desk, on which a small, black, leather-bound diary lay. Sensing the onrush of fast-approaching night, the writer rose and lit the two gas mantles that brought a soft, welcoming, creamy-yellow light into the room. Next, the window was closed, amputating the mist tendrils from the greater whole of their swirling forms that lingered outside in the open air.
The diary lay open and beside it was a small brass padlock, waiting to be clipped into place on the tiny hasp attached to the cover once the diarist was done for the day, sealing the
