Lost, Found

When I walked into the unassuming thrift store on the outskirts of the city, I knew there would be something there waiting for me. It was a magnetic feeling that, to this day, I can’t put into words. A calling.

It was a Tuesday in July, and I had absolutely no plans besides clearing my mind from whatever was ailing me. At that point I couldn’t quite pinpoint my malaise. It might have been the summer heat boiling my anxious brain or something deeper, more sinister. The social media feeds, the traffic, the dentist. A combination of modern problems that just seem to keep piling on. I needed to shuffle through someone else’s past, put together context clues, create a liminal space where I could start over tomorrow. This was the plan.

I wandered over to the books as soon as I walked in the open door. The air was still and hot. The combination of a million people’s homes caught my nose and the musty earth felt nostalgic. I immediately relaxed and stood in front of the shelves of books. I was met with a large collection of every conceivable genre: self-help, romance, thriller, horror. Every one of these novels had the feeling of abandonment after having been loved and cherished for so long. Dog eared but dignified, these stories helped other people escape, strangers like me turning the volume of the world down. I looked at the titles. I read the epilogues. I picked up a medical textbook only to read a passage that made me immediately want to schedule a doctors appointment.

I was just about to leave when my eyes fell on the top shelf. In between two old science fiction books sat a small leather-bound black book. I stood as tall as I could and barely reached up to grab the spine with just two fingers.

The book was a journal. Besides the first page, it was completely blank. A red silk ribbon kept the place in the middle, almost as though still there from the assembly line. I feel in love with the possibility of filling this book up with new ideas. I put my face inside the book and inhaled deeply. It smelled like aged leather and paper with the faintest hint of citrus that I could only assume was from the store’s cleaning supplies. I exhaled in relief. This is what was needed, and it was dramatically cheaper than therapy.

I brought the journal to the cash register and the woman there looked at the little black book and met my gaze.

“This has been here forever.” she said plainly. “Glad its going to a good home.”

I smiled and nodded, handed her a quarter and left.

When I got home I sat the book on my nightstand and looked out the window. Down on the busy street, people darted around in cars and laughed inside of restaurants. Every type of person was out there, living their life and waiting for the next thing to happen. They seemed to move like clockwork. I wonder if someone could be watching me watch them and got the chills. Time to write it out.

In the spirit of self-care, I lit some candles and put on a face mask. I gently set a record on the turntable and soothing music fluttered to life. I grabbed my favorite pen and cracked the new journal. strumming through the first few pages only to be immediately distracted by the former owner’s only faint inscription:

JULY 8TH 1990.

Light will help,

Go there for me

Just to remember

Reflect

The date was 30 years ago to the day. I was mesmerized by the coincidence and struggled to look past it. Was I made to find this book? There were more words scribbled on the bottom of the first page, more like symbols than anything. I couldn’t quite make out what I was seeing.

I tilted the page towards the open flame of a candle for a better look. I felt like a 19th century author, laughing to myself at how ridiculous it felt to be doing this when I knew my electric bill was paid. Still, I pretended.

Seemingly out of nowhere, the page grew warmer and a brown image came to life. Hidden invisible symbols started to form and connect in odd shapes and patterns. Like someone whispering a secret, the single blank page was breathing, the heat from the candle revealing a detailed drawing. The once blank page now resembled a map drawn in coffee. I gasped audibly and turned on the lights.

The page was in fact a map. A local map at that. Landmarks were meticulously painted with a small brush, all of them foreign yet familiar at the same time. The thing that stuck out the most were numbers. They were the largest detail by far and made the other delicate details seem like a frivolous afterthought. Each number was laced in filigree, curling across the top of the page in professional penmanship, as though done with a quill and nib. Someone made this map out of love, with the painstaking resolve of a Renaissance painter. It was meant to be found.

As I examined the numbers it dawned on me that they were coordinates. I quickly opened my computer and found the precise location. My quick search pinpointed the location to just outside of town.

Hazel Hill as it was known to locals, a steep and windy mountain road that bordered a state park was glowing on my screen. Folklore and myth has shrouded the relatively innocuous natural landscape for decades, stories I had resolved as warnings given by worried parents about the dangers of driving alone and at night. Alive with a newfound sense of adventure, I set out quickly to find out what was waiting for me.

The street was practically empty as I pulled into traffic and headed West. As I approached the entrance to Hazel Hill, the sun dipped just below the horizon, leaving me in the empty vacuum of night. I turned on my headlights just as the nocturnal insects grew louder.

As I climbed higher in elevation, the normally unbearable heat subsided and I was able to roll my windows down. I could smell the sleeping dark forest as I cruised higher, each winding curve sending me into giddy anticipation. Every now and then I would steal a risky glance at the little black book riding shotgun and smile. I loved this empty journal.

On approach to the final pinpoint I saw a cutout on the side of the road typically reserved for scenic views. This is where my map was telling me to stop. I pulled over, grabbed the journal and popped the trunk for a flashlight.

As I walked around to investigate where I was, I felt a sort of nervous pang of anxiety. Not one insect stirred. The silence was so overwhelming I started humming to myself in order to stay calm. I was shining the light on the book when I noticed something in my periphery. Spinning around to investigate, I illuminated what looked like an old shrine perched up against a damaged guardrail. As I walked closer I saw a small photo of a woman, tattered by weather and faded with age. Flowers sat listlessly in moldy vases. A deflated heart shaped balloon still attached to its string lay on the ground like an old nylon lasso. I could smell the vanilla votive candles so clearly in the crisp summer night the memorial could have been yesterday. I looked deeply at her portrait. Brown hair framed by two pale blue eyes. She couldn’t have been older than 23. On the picture frame it read:

Dawn

Beloved Daughter and Friend

Always searching

July 8th, 1990.

I took a step back. Everything started to come rushing at once, so I got back in the car and shut the door to think. What am I doing here? I looked down at the book for answers.

Meet me in the middle.

I cracked the book open to where the red ribbon lay flat. Grabbing a lighter, I held the flame to the blank page. Nothing.

I got back out of my car, refusing to give up. I walked over to the old portrait and traced my flashlight over the damaged guardrail and down to the ravine below. Something metallic sparkled back through the darkness, a lighthouse beaming back from behind two giant rocks.

Excited, I tried to see how I could get down. I walked back and forth along the rail and navigated a path down several large boulders I could climb down and then back up again if need be. As I started by descent, I nervously made loud noises in the hopes of scaring any animals before they could scare me. My flashlight leading the way, i was almost to the glittering object.

Now in the open ravine, about a thousand feet below where I had started stood an old mangled car. It looked to be from the 80s, although it was hard to tell because of the extensive damage it had sustained. Covered in rust, the paint was barely visible and I couldn’t figure out what was shining back at me from up on the cliff. I darted my light all around the vehicle hoping for a clue. I was met immediately with the driver side mirror, my own reflection staring back at me.

I leaned on the mirror as I looked inside the empty car. In doing so, the plastic snapped completely off and I stumbled to the ground, cursing my stupidity. It looked to be stuck in place with an adhesive, post-accident. I stood back up and brushed the dirt off. I looked at the mirror. Something was inside of it.

A single envelope in a zip lock bag was stuffed inside, covered in spider webs and dirt. I brushed off the debris to see rolls of cash inside. I carefully opened the bag and counted as fast as I could by flashlight. The total was $20,000.

Inside the envelope was a handwritten letter. Beautiful calligraphy, similar to the map inside the book stared back at me from a single piece of paper.

To whomever finds this -

My sister lost her life in this car. She lost control of her vehicle and fell into this gulch. She was 25.

A short time later the manufacturer had recalled the brakes from this particular car and issued a $20,000 settlement to my family. No amount of money could help with the grief, and I couldn’t bare to take it. It does Dawn’s memory a disservice.

I hope whoever you are that you needed this more than I could bare to keep it. My sister was a an adventurer, having organized and participated in hundreds of scavenger hunts during her short time with us. The fact that you are reading this is making her happy, wherever that might be.

Do right by my daughter.

I looked up at the stars and clicked my flashlight off. I needed a moment of silence, and when it came I no longer worried about anything.

I tucked the envelope back into the bag of money and fixed the mirror back into place. I turned my flashlight on and climbed back up to the road. The air was silent and cool. I started the ignition, made a u-turn and headed down Hazel Hill.

Smiling through tears of relief, I realized that my own tomorrow was mere hours away, and in that new fleeting sense of possibility that comes from a revival of the spirit, I knew what I had to do.

As soon as I got home, I sorted through some things I needed to donate On the top of the pile was a little black book, the red ribbon still pressed in the middle.