Found in a weather‑beaten shack overlooking the tide flats.
Day 41
The sea keeps taking pieces of the town. Last night the dock went under with a sound like a groan. I stood watch and listened to the dead moving in the marsh grass. They don’t hurry. They don’t need to.
I keep telling myself I’ll head inland tomorrow. I keep lying.
Day 44
Saw smoke from the old cannery. Thought it was a signal. Walked two miles to find only a burn barrel and a coat still warm. Whoever wore it didn’t stay long. Or didn’t stay alive.
Day 47
The tide brought in a skiff today. No oars. No footprints. Just a rope frayed clean through. I think the sea is lonelier than we are.
Recovered from a farmhouse cellar, pages stiff with damp.
Entry 12
Rationed the last of the canned peaches. Ate them slow, like a ceremony. The quiet here is heavy. Even the dead avoid the fields when the fog rolls in.
Entry 15
I heard someone calling my name last night. Soft, like they didn’t want to wake the house. I didn’t answer. I don’t trust voices in the dark anymore.
Entry 18
The generator coughed itself to death. I lit a candle and the shadows looked wrong on the walls. I think I’ll move at dawn. Staying feels like waiting to be claimed.
Found in a lighthouse keeper’s quarters.
Log 3
The lamp still works if I coax it. I light it each night out of habit. Maybe someone will see it. Maybe no one is left to.
Log 6
Saw shapes on the rocks below. Not the dead. Not quite. They moved like they remembered being human but couldn’t recall the steps.
Log 9
Storm coming. The kind that strips paint and hope. If the lamp goes out, I won’t relight it. Let the sea have the last word.
Found in a backpack near the collapsed bridge.
Note 1
Met a man on the road. Said he was heading north where the air was cleaner. He laughed when he said it, like he knew it wasn’t true.
Note 3
Crossed the bridge too late. The supports gave way behind me. I watched the road fall into the river like it was tired of holding us up.
Note 4
Camped by the old billboard. The paint’s peeling but you can still read the slogan: A Better Tomorrow. I almost laughed. Almost.
Found in a drawer of a collapsed farmhouse overlooking the salt marsh.
Entry 5
The mornings are colder now. I walk the fence line out of habit, though there’s nothing left to keep in or out. The fields lie fallow, the soil gone sour. I still catch myself looking for my husband’s boots by the door. Old habits die slower than people do.
Entry 9
The dead passed through the orchard last night. I heard them brushing against the trees, slow as cattle in the dark. They didn’t come near the house. Maybe they remember the place. Maybe they don’t remember anything at all.
Entry 12
I found one of his shirts today, the one with the torn sleeve. Held it longer than I meant to. The wind came through the boards and it felt like someone breathing behind me. I didn’t turn around.
Entry 14
The lantern’s running low. I’ll head for the coast at first light. The house feels too big now, like it’s waiting for me to leave so it can fall apart in peace.
Recovered from a schoolbag near the old coastal road.
Day 2
Mom says we have to stay quiet. The town is different now. The birds don’t sing much. I miss the gulls yelling at everything.
Day 4
Saw a man walking funny by the docks. He didn’t look at me. Just kept going like he forgot where he was supposed to be.
Day 6
Mom cried today. She tried to hide it but I heard. I told her I’d keep watch tonight. She smiled but not the real kind.
Day 7
We slept in the boat shed. The sea was loud. I pretended it was talking to us. Mom said we’d go north tomorrow. She said the air might be better there. I hope it is.
Day 8
The notebook’s getting wet. It’s raining hard. Mom went to check the road. She told me to stay put. I’m trying to be brave. I really am.