Beneath The Dust

V. CHAPTER TWO

Vivienne's POV:

I sat down on an old trunk, the diary resting in my lap. The cover was rough and worn, but I could still make out faint golden letters on the front: V.W. Whoever this belonged to, they’d had a story to tell.

I carefully turned the first page, feeling the delicate texture of the paper beneath my fingertips. The handwriting was a graceful, looping script, filled with the kind of elegance you don’t see anymore. I could almost imagine a girl, maybe not much older than me, sitting down to write her thoughts in this very book.

The first entry was dated April 12, 1824:

“Today, I walked through the garden, and the roses were in bloom. My husband’s sister, Miss Wilson, said I should be proud of them—they’re a reflection of our home, she says. But I long for more than just roses and tea parties and minding my posture. Sometimes, I feel like I was born for a different world altogether...”

My heart raced as I read. Whoever this girl was, she had dreams, frustrations, longings. I could almost feel her restlessness in each word, each swirl of ink. I turned the page, hungry to know more.

“My husband’s study is locked up again,” the next entry read, “and I heard him arguing with Mr.Ellsworth. I wish they wouldn’t speak so harshly—it leaves such a chill in the house.”

My eyes widened. There was something mysterious here, something hidden, and as I flipped through the pages, I felt like I was stepping into her world. There were entries about her hopes, her relationship with her husband, her secrets, all woven into the fragile pages of this little diary. I could feel her reaching out, as if wanting someone to know her story, someone to understand her. And now, almost a century later, that someone was me, except the I have a boyfriend in place of a husband.