The Scrawl Beneath the Brick

The alley off Notre Dame Avenue always smelled like stale beer and exhaust. A perennial shadow clung to its brick walls, even with the faint, watery sunlight of mid-spring attempting to filter down. Lennie hadn't meant to stop, not really. He was just walking, aimlessly, as he often did these days, the heavy thrum of a persistent headache behind his eyes.

His foot snagged on a loose brick near a overflowing dumpster, sending a shard of crumbling mortar skittering. He bent, more out of habit than intention, to kick it back into place. That’s when he saw it. Wedged deep in the hollow where the brick had been, tucked beneath layers of grime and forgotten detritus, was a small, sodden notebook.

It was the colour of dried blood, though much of that was probably just urban filth. No, not just filth. The cover felt like worn leather, and despite the damp, it held its shape. An odd weight settled in his chest. Why had he looked there? Why had he even noticed that loose brick? He hesitated, then, without conscious thought, pulled it free. The brick clattered back into place. He clutched the notebook, tucking it inside his oversized hoodie pocket, the dampness seeping through the fabric.

He kept walking, the rhythmic scuff of his sneakers on the wet pavement a dull percussion. The notebook, a small, unassuming thing, seemed to grow heavier with each step. He didn’t look at it immediately. He couldn't. The city sprawled around him, indifferent. A bus roared past, spraying slush onto the sidewalk. A couple argued loudly outside a convenience shop, their voices sharp and fractured. Everything felt… sharper now, more pronounced, as if a thin film had been pulled from his perception.

The Unveiling

Back in his cramped bachelor flat, the air still carried the faint, lingering scent of last night’s instant noodles. The spring outside was a grey watercolour smear against the window. He sat at his kitchen table, the notebook now lying open before him. The pages were discoloured, warped by moisture, but the ink, though faded in places, held firm.

It wasn’t a diary. Not exactly. It was filled with what looked like sprawling notes, diagrams, and symbols. Some were recognisable letters, haphazardly strung together to form half-words, or maybe fragments of sentences in a language he didn't know. Other marks were utterly alien: intricate spirals, jagged lines that resembled fractured constellations, a repetitive symbol that looked like an eye nested within a broken circle.

His fingers traced the faded script, the paper cool and slightly rough against his skin. A chill, unrelated to the dampness, started to spread. He tried to rationalise it. Someone’s mad ramblings. A kid’s secret code. But a knot tightened in his stomach. The entries weren't random. There was a deliberate, almost obsessive quality to the repetition of certain symbols, the way the lines were drawn, the evident care taken, despite the worn state of the notebook.

He flipped through the pages, a few tearing at the water-damaged spine. His breath caught on a specific page. Here, the writing was clearer, less frantic. A date, scrawled clumsily: *April 12th*. That was yesterday. Below it, a single phrase, underlined twice: *The Junction, Midnight*.

Distant Echoes

The coffee shop on Osborne was bustling, the air thick with the smell of burnt sugar and something vaguely floral. He’d come here often enough, a kind of anchor. Today, it felt like an observation deck, everyone else moving in a different dimension. He ordered a black coffee, the bitter warmth a familiar comfort against the unease simmering within him. He kept the notebook hidden under his elbow, a conspiratorial secret.

Tyler, behind the counter, caught his eye. “Rough one, eh, Lennie? You look like you’ve been wrestling a ghost.” Tyler had that easy, almost unnerving way of seeing things. He was a few years older, always had a book tucked into his apron, and a patient, weary kind of wisdom in his eyes. He pushed the coffee across the counter. "Anything I can do? You're quieter than usual."

Lennie grunted, a noncommittal sound. “Just… thinking.” He picked at the rim of his paper cup, not meeting Tyler’s gaze. He wanted to tell him, wanted to show him the notebook, but the words stuck in his throat like burrs. What would he even say? *Hey, I found this weird book, and now I think I’m unraveling?*

Tyler leaned slightly across the counter, lowering his voice. “Look, whatever it is, don’t let it eat you up. This city… it’s got a way of doing that. It’s got sharp teeth, but it’s also full of good people. Find your own light, okay?” He offered a small, genuine smile, then turned to the next customer, already taking their order, their words overlapping with his own, fading into the general hum.

Lennie didn't respond. He just nodded, probably too late. He felt a sting, a slight ache, at his inability to connect, to articulate the swirling confusion that had taken root since finding the damp leather. Tyler was a good person. Too good for Lennie to dump this unsettling, likely imagined, burden onto.

The Compulsion

He spent the rest of the afternoon poring over the notebook, trying every logical, then illogical, method to decode it. He copied the symbols, overlaid them, searched online for obscure languages and ancient scripts. Nothing. His head throbbed, a dull beat against his temples. The 'eye in a broken circle' symbol, however, was recurrent, appearing on almost every page, sometimes small, sometimes dominating a full spread.

He noticed it again next to a crudely drawn map on the back page. A rough sketch of an intersection he recognised: Main Street and Higgins Avenue. And right there, faintly marked with an 'X', was what looked like an old, abandoned warehouse, or maybe just a derelict shop front. Underneath the 'X', the date again: *April 12th*. And then, almost too small to read, another scribbled note: *0200. Alone*.

Yesterday. Two AM. What had happened there? A cold dread seeped into him, but it was accompanied by a strange, insistent pull. The fear was real, a cold clench in his gut, but beneath it, a desperate curiosity, a need to know. He knew it was stupid. He knew he should just burn the notebook, toss it back into the alley, forget he ever saw it.

But he couldn't. He kept looking at the 'X', at the symbol, at the date. The city outside was growing dim, streetlights flickering on. The sky was still that flat, indifferent grey of early spring. He thought of Tyler's words about the city having sharp teeth. He thought of the unsettling feeling that had lingered since yesterday, a premonition he hadn't understood until now.

The notebook lay open, demanding attention. It felt less like a discovery and more like an invitation. An invitation he was too tired, too lost, and too strangely compelled to refuse. He traced the symbol one last time, the rough paper scratching against his thumb. The Junction. Main and Higgins. He had to go. He just had to.

His old windbreaker felt thin, but he pulled it on anyway. He tucked the notebook back into his pocket, its presence a small, hard lump against his hip. He didn't know what he would find, or what he was even looking for, but the thought of simply ignoring it felt worse than any potential danger. The streetlights outside cast long, thin shadows as he stepped out, the cool spring air biting at his exposed skin. He was going to find out what 'The Junction' meant. He didn't have a choice.