Burari Case Diary Notes の小説・ストーリー

I took a deep breath inhaling all the dust that had been stagnating in the room. 'The watchman has become blind ', I thought as I decided to lock the door again when I noticed something. A diary. I walked in and picked it up. Pink I'm colour, had to be a girl's diary. I walked out with it turning off the lights and locking the door again. I opened it. This Diary belongs to Akansha Goenka. The first sentence I read after opening it in fine cursive handwriting. It belonged to Akansha. Not that bad either.

So I trained my body to move faster. I went straight to Casey's room, scanning the area fast and deciding to work with the table first. I had visited this house a few times, and I recalled Casey loved to write a diary and put it on the only desk in this room. I found it. This was her diary because I read the date on the top of each page. Okay. The next was what? I couldn't possibly read it now. Fortunately, I always brought my phone with me--Eliot made me promise to do. So I began taking pictures of her diary. I did it until the last page.

I told him everything—how I found the box in Lucian’s house, the photos and videos of Mila with him, the diary that stopped abruptly after the line: "I married Lucian against my father’s wishes because I love him. But today I found something and..." I looked up at Barrister kuti, my voice trembling. "That was the last thing she wrote. After that—nothing." He opened the phone, brows tightening as he flipped through the gallery. He skimmed the diary pages. And when he finished, he leaned back and exhaled.

But, The ones above were harder to reach, forcing me to stretch, my fingers roaming blindly across the upper shelves. Suddenly, something solid brushed against my fingertips. Frowning, I pulled it free. It fell to the floor with a soft thud. A black diary falls right at my feet. Frowning, I picked it up out of curiosity. Its leather cover was worn, its pages yellowed with age. My heart skipped as I picked it up, and curiously opened to the first page... A date stared back at me— it was 27th August, 2005. “A twenty year old diary in the bathroom cabinet? What the hell?”

“Go straight to the point.” “She left a note with ambiguous words that didn't even sound like her. I had spent time trying to understand it.” “If she left notes, what was I supposed to do? I said in a calm low voice, cutting Finn off. “I'm quite busy, Finn.” Finn avoided eye contact with me. Rather he extracted a small leather-bound diary from his coat pocket. The cover was a little faded and the pages edges were worn from age. His fingers were clenched around it as he extended it to me.

Without hesitation, I grabbed the most eye-catching photo frame and smashed it to the ground. To my surprise, a hidden compartment lay behind it. Inside, a small wooden box sat neatly in place. I stared at it for a long moment before opening it. Inside was a medical report and an old diary, its pages yellowed with age. The report listed my personal info, my blood type bolded like it was the only thing that mattered. I flipped through the diary, watching the handwriting evolve from messy scrawls to steady, confident strokes.

There was a strange calm in Neil’s voice, as if he had already made peace with his fear. “Three days ago, I went to the staff room to take notes. There was Professor Raghavan’s old wooden trunk. Someone had inserted a fresh key into its lock. “I tried opening it, and inside I found an old notebook. The register. “Wrapped in black leather, edges worn out. But the strangest thing was written on it—‘Incomplete Session’.” Neil’s breath grew heavier. “I flipped through the pages. Every name had a story written beside it. And the last page was blank.

The mending basket on the chair by the window had one less item in it than yesterday. Small things. I catalogued them the way I catalogued everything, and then I sat down at the kitchen table and made myself open the file. Brennan had been thorough. He always was. The file on Silas Bourgeard ran to fourteen pages of close handwriting, organized chronologically from his earliest years in Broken Arrow through his exile and the years of silence that followed. Brennan didn’t type anything; he didn’t trust computers. I read it straight through once. Then I went back to the beginning and read it again more slowly.

I appreciated her more than I could say. The briefcase lay open between us, the contents illuminated by a clamp light stuck to the side of a fallen rack. Inside: vellum diagrams, annotated in both Sanskrit and Control Code; etched copper tools that gave off a faint metallic tang; a bundle of human hair tied with a red thread; and a vial of something that shimmered like gasoline on water. "This isn't a user-friendly system," I said, trying to make sense of the diagram that seemed to depict both a nervous system and a tree root map.

stated Evander matter-of-factly. “What?” I asked and pulled out of Andrew’s embrace. “Are you sure?” “Yup. I can tell by the scent left behind.” I looked over at Osiris and he was nodding his head in agreement. “I guess that makes what I found missing not so interesting.” “What’s missing?” Andrew asked. “A set of case notes from an older case. The case has been resolved, all appeals exhausted. From a quick inventory it appears that’s the only thing missing.” “Sweetness, are you sure it’s missing? That sounds pretty specific,” questioned Evander.