Chapter 1 — The Forgotten Journal
Evelyn Hart
Evelyn Hart tugged the hood of her coat tighter against the biting wind as she stepped outside the publishing house, her leather satchel bumping against her hip with every step. The manuscript inside felt heavier than it had that morning, a faint crease still visible on its once-pristine cover. She had poured months of herself into it—nights spent hunched over her desk, hands cramped from revising, heart pressed against every word. Now, rejection coiled tight in her chest, a heavy knot that refused to loosen. The editor’s words replayed in her mind, sharp and definitive: *“It’s promising, but not ready.”*
Promising. The word stung, a polite dismissal wrapped in encouragement. But *not ready*—that was the real dagger. Her breath hitched as she tried to blink away the memory, but it lingered, each syllable a shadow dragging behind her. Her grip on the satchel tightened until her knuckles turned white, as if holding onto it could keep her from unraveling.
The night air was crisp, slicing through her coat as she exhaled a plume of breath. The city’s lights reflected off damp sidewalks, puddles shimmering with the blurred hues of neon signs and streetlamps. Somewhere in the distance, a saxophone’s mournful tune threaded through the city’s hum, the melody vibrating faintly in her chest. Normally, she might pause to let herself be carried by it, to feel the city’s rhythm settle her thoughts—but tonight, it was noise, sharp and relentless. She reached the corner and stopped, her feet planted as if she might sink into the concrete. Her hands trembled slightly as she slipped her manuscript from her bag, staring at its title page. She wanted to rip it in two, throw it into the gutter, scream at the futility of it all—but instead, she clutched it tighter and stuffed it back inside.
Fishing her phone from her pocket, Evelyn summoned a cab, her fingers shaking as she tapped the screen. Her building wasn’t far, but the idea of walking—even through the familiar streets of Brooklyn—felt unbearable tonight. Her apartment was waiting for her, cluttered and small but comforting in its disarray. She could almost feel the soft folds of her favorite sweater, hear the quiet whistle of her kettle as she steeped tea. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to make her believe she could hold herself together.
The cab arrived within minutes, its tires skimming to a stop at the curb. Evelyn hesitated as she opened the door, her fingertips brushing the worn edges of her leather journal before carefully placing it back into the satchel. It grounded her, a tether to a self she couldn’t betray, no matter the weight of rejection. She slid into the back seat, murmuring her address as she buckled her seatbelt.
The driver, a man with tousled dark hair and a shadow of stubble, nodded without a word. His jawline was sharp, and his piercing blue eyes flicked briefly to the rearview mirror before settling on the road. Around his neck hung a pair of worn headphones, the faint strains of a melody filtering through them. Evelyn caught fragments of haunting chords—low, raw notes that rose and fell with the rhythm of something unspoken.
The cab smelled faintly of coffee and leather, its warmth wrapping around her like a blanket. Evelyn leaned her head against the window, watching the city blur past as they crossed the Manhattan Bridge. The skyline shimmered against the inky blackness of the river below, a constellation of lights so achingly beautiful it felt like a cruel joke. She should have been inspired, moved to write—but all she felt was hollow.
“Rough night?” the driver asked, his voice low but not unkind.
Evelyn blinked, startled. She hadn’t expected conversation; most cab drivers were content with silence. For a moment, she considered brushing the question off with a polite nod and a tight-lipped smile. But something in his tone—calm, almost tentative—made her guard waver.
“You could say that,” she replied softly, her hazel eyes flicking to the rearview mirror. His focus was on the road, but there was a subtle openness in his expression, as though he recognized the weight she carried.
“Publishing?” he guessed, gesturing with a tilt of his head toward the satchel resting by her side.
Her breath caught. “How did you—?”
“Lucky guess,” he said with a shrug. “You just have that look. Like you’ve been carrying a story around too long, and it’s starting to get heavy.”
The words hit her harder than she expected, a quiet truth she hadn’t realized she was wearing. Evelyn stared at the back of his head, unsure whether to feel exposed or understood.
“Something like that,” she said at last, her voice tinged with wry humor. “I guess I’m not very good at hiding it.”
“No one is,” he replied simply, his dry tone almost making her smile.
The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable, broken only by the hum of the engine and the faint strains of music still playing through his headphones. Evelyn found her gaze drifting back to the rearview mirror, studying the faint scar above his eyebrow, the way his fingers tapped idly against the steering wheel. Something about him felt familiar—not his face, but the quiet weight he carried, as if everything he wanted to say had been tucked away somewhere unreachable.
When they pulled up outside her building, Evelyn rummaged through her bag, pulling out a crumpled bill and handing it to him.
“Keep the change,” she said, her voice soft but distracted, her thoughts already spiraling back to the editor’s words and the manuscript she would have to face again.
“Good luck,” the driver said as she stepped onto the sidewalk.
Evelyn froze, glancing back at him. His blue eyes met hers in the rearview mirror, and for a fleeting moment, she felt the weight of those words—not empty, not perfunctory, but genuine.
“Thanks,” she murmured, her voice barely audible. Then she turned and headed inside, the cab pulling away into the night.
It wasn’t until hours later—after she’d changed into her softest sweater, brewed a cup of tea, and stared blankly at her manuscript for far too long—that Evelyn realized the journal was gone. She reached for it instinctively, needing to pour her frustration onto its worn pages, only to find—nothing.
Her breath hitched as panic surged through her veins. She tore through her satchel, scattering pens and papers across the tiny kitchen table. Her fingers trembled as she searched the same pocket twice, three times, her pulse roaring in her ears. Her mind raced, replaying the moment she had placed it in the bag. Had it fallen out? Had she left it in the cab? Her stomach churned as the image of the driver flashed in her memory.
The journal wasn’t just a notebook. It was *her*, in all her messy, vulnerable entirety. It held the raw drafts of her novel, fragments of poetry, and the kind of confessions she wouldn’t dare speak aloud. It was the only place she allowed herself to be imperfect.
And now it was gone.
Evelyn gripped the edge of the table, her knuckles white. “He wouldn’t,” she whispered, shaking her head. “He didn’t seem like the type.” But the thought of him flipping through her pages—reading the pieces of herself she kept hidden—made her chest tighten with helpless frustration.
*
Somewhere in the city, Adrian Russo sat in the driver’s seat of his yellow cab, parked on a quiet side street. The journal lay on the passenger seat beside him, its weathered leather cover catching the faint glow of a nearby streetlamp.
His hand hovered over it, the edge of his thumb brushing the frayed ribbon bookmark. He hadn’t opened it—not yet. But something about it tugged at him, a quiet hum beneath the chaos of the city.
He glanced out the window, the restless energy of New York alive in the flickering lights and muffled sounds. The faint melody playing through his headphones was a song he could no longer finish, the chords tangled with memories too painful to unravel. He glanced back at the journal, the pull growing stronger, like an unopened door he wasn’t sure he wanted to enter.
For the first time in a long time, Adrian felt something stir—a flicker of curiosity, of connection. And he wondered if this forgotten journal, this accidental glimpse into someone else’s world, might be the story he needed to find his own way back.
