The red notebook has been missing for nearly a year.
I stopped actively searching for it months ago—not because I gave up, but because the search became less urgent. I had built a life without it. I had found Lucas and Sophie and Kevin and Marlene. I had faced Alexander and forgiven Elena (mostly) and befriended Diana. I had learned to make my own coffee (badly) and care for my ficus (adequately) and navigate the penthouse without getting lost (usually). The red notebook, whatever secrets it held, had faded into the background of my consciousness—a mystery I'd learned to live alongside rather than desperately try to solve.
But the universe, it seems, has a sense of timing.
