I didn't steal the diary.
I found it — on the last dusty shelf of the school library, buried under cobwebs and forgotten pages. Its leather was cracked, the corners burned. But what made my fingers freeze was the title, barely visible in deep red:
> "This Book Will Write Death."
Of course, I opened it.
Blank.
Until that night.
At 2:37 a.m., I woke up to the sound of scribbling. The diary — now glowing red — lay on my desk. I approached it, slowly. My hands were shaking.
A new page had appeared.
> "Tomorrow, the gardener will die. Under the crescent moon."
I laughed nervously and closed it.
But the next day… the gardener's body was found. Exactly as written.
And then, three nights later… my name appeared.