I slowly made my way inside the old house, dragging the cleaning supplies my father got me. If it weren’t for the extra money, I wouldn’t even bother going here, let alone clean it. I went upstairs, deciding which part of the residence I should clean first, and stopped on a room that was once a recording studio.

Everything was covered in dust—the control panel, the microphones, the swivel chairs—and the soundproof glass looked so dirty. I grimaced and wanted to back out but thought better of it, and began to clean that dreary place.

After an hour or so, I finally managed to clean half of the room. I wiped the sweat starting to form on my brow and moved to a drawer that I haven’t cleared yet. I started to remove the first and second drawers' contents and dumped it into a bin when I saw it was of no use to me. However, when I reached for the third drawer, I found it locked.

I got a bunch of keys from my backpack and tried every key into the hole. The first key fit perfectly and I let out a sigh of relief. I opened it, only to find a lone red book.

Curious, I flipped the cover and saw that it was a diary—my father’s diary. My curiosity got the better of me and I started to browse the journal.

“No dates?” I muttered as I turned every page.

What kind of a diary is this?