Oliver paused, unsure of what else to write. His day, he supposed. That’s what diaries were for, right? To record what had happened that day, and also your hopes, dreams…

The boy sighed, then bent over the page again. You didn’t write much, once you finished Letter Forms and Alphabet when you were really little. Oliver’s handwriting, since not used, was horrible. That of a young child just learning how to write. This was because as soon as you learned those, you moved to typing. You never had a chance to really practice.

He explained this to his new friend, Diary, saying he was sorry to soil the beautiful, moonshine pages with his dark, messy ink writings.

Suddenly the hollow echo came from down the hall, a gaurd’s boots clomping down towards him. Oliver stuffed the book and pen beneath his pillow, slamming his head down on it, closing his eyes, trying to still his heart.

The flashlight’s beam passed him, then left. Oliver grabbed the book again, then gasped.

All that he’d written was gone.

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