You pull the diary out of the bag, feeling the thickness of the leather cover, and the scent of aged paper fills your senses. Only half the book has been filled out so far, each entry written in dark glossy ink, faintly smudged where your thoughts outpaced your hand. Tempted to read over a previous entry, you open it. /// October 4th, The party went as smoothly as it could have. The look on Sara's face was priceless: I'd frame it if I could. The biggest suprise were Mum and Dad, though, even I didn't know they were coming today. After everyone left, the four of us just sat down and talked for hours. Just like the old days. Though they still didn't tell us why they left. Sara kept asking them but they wouldn't say a word. I knew they wouldn't. They never tell us a thing. Seriously, how strange is it that we don't even know what they do for a living? I guess I never questioned it when I was younger. They seemed less than pleased when I told them about my new job oppurtunity. Mum never liked the company; I swear, she was about to tell me to quit before Sara stopped her. I'm so glad to still have her. At least one thing can remain constant in my life. /// You're about to turn to the next page when ringing fills the air: it’s the telephone from across the hall. You reluctantly close the diary and check the time: 7:45. Work starts in only fifteen minutes. Should you pick up the call? If you do, you might get late.