Cinderella
The music in the underground club thudded faintly in the background as Jules bent down, peering under the couch. Dust clung to her fingertips as she searched, but there was no sign of the notebook. Straightening up with a frustrated sigh, she stared at her two barely conscious friends slouched on the couch.
“She didn’t leave it? What do you mean?” Jules pressed.
One of them cracked an eye open lazily. “She came in, busted some exquisite moves in her awesome red boots, and then... poof. Gone.”
Jules frowned. “Gone? Without leaving the notebook?”
The friend shrugged, already half-asleep again.
Confusion and unease churned in Jules’ stomach. Jules ran a hand through her hair, muttering under her breath. Where would she have left it? Why didn’t she give it to them?
Jules paced around the room, scanning every corner. Her gaze darted to the edges of tables, the top of the bar, the darkened corners of the room—but there was nothing. She crouched down again, checking under the couch more thoroughly, but all she got was a coating of grime on her hands.
“Ugh, gross.” Jules stood quickly, her face twisting in irritation. She headed for the bathroom, pushing open the door and stepping inside. The music dulled slightly behind her as the door swung shut.
She turned on the faucet, scrubbing at her hands under the running water. As she looked up, her eyes caught something in the mirror. Her breath hitched.
Scrawled in faint, fogged letters were the words:
But I’m scared.
For a moment, Jules froze. Her hands hovered under the faucet, water still running as she stared at the message.
And now, Jules realised, she’d left something far more personal than the notebook.
“She’s scared,” Jules whispered to herself, her voice barely audible over the hum of the overhead light. Guilt tightened in her chest. Mika’s fear wasn’t what Jules had expected—or wanted. She thought Mika was bold, unshakeable, and willing to dive headfirst into whatever challenge Jules threw her way. But this?
Jules leaned against the sink, the cold porcelain pressing into her palms. Was I too pushy? Did I scare her off completely? The thought was like a lead weight sinking into her stomach. She turned off the faucet, grabbed a paper towel, and wiped her hands before stepping back out into the club.
Her friends were still slumped on the couch when she returned.
“Did you find the notebook?” one of them mumbled, half-awake.
“No,” Jules replied, shaking her head. Her voice sounded hollow even to her own ears.
“So, what now?”
Jules hesitated, glancing back toward the bathroom. “This was such a mistake.”
“What? Why?”
“Because…” Jules ran a hand through her hair again, her frustration bubbling over. “She’s scared because I pushed her too far, and now I don’t even have the notebook, so I can’t even apologize. Or explain.” Her voice cracked slightly on the last word.
Without waiting for a response, Jules turned on her heel and walked out of the club. The music faded behind her as she climbed the narrow stairs leading to the street above. The cold air hit her face as she emerged into the night, her thoughts swirling.
And then she saw it.
There, in a puddle of water, was something unmistakable—a vibrant, red boot.
Jules stopped in her tracks, her eyes locking onto it. Slowly, she crouched down, reaching out to pick it up.
Jules was still crouched at the top of the stairs, holding the red boot in her hands, staring at it like it might whisper an answer if she stared long enough. Her friends appeared behind her, climbing the stairs slowly, still bleary-eyed from being woken up.
"That’s your girl’s boot," one of them said, nudging Jules lightly.
Jules raised an eyebrow, her expression half annoyed, half confused. "Why would she just leave a boot?"
"Maybe she wanted you to find it," the other chimed in, grinning. "Like a clue or something."
Jules blinked at the boot, turning it over in her hands as if it might reveal more. A clue? That sounded like something Mika would do, but why a boot? It wasn’t like the girl to leave behind something so personal, so… obvious.
As she examined it more closely, something caught her eye inside. She squinted, tilting the book toward the light. Letters, scrawled faintly: TDF.
She frowned. "What’s TDF?"
Her friends shrugged in unison, offering nothing but clueless expressions. Jules ran a thumb over the initials, her mind racing. Mika was clever, always deliberate. This had to mean something, right?
Jules stood on the quiet street, clutching the red boot in her hand, her thumb grazing the smooth leather. A flurry of emotions hit her all at once—confusion, guilt, curiosity, and something deeper she didn’t want to name just yet. Her mind replayed the words on the mirror: But I’m scared. That one sentence, fogged into the glass, was like a window into Mika’s vulnerability, a side of her Jules hadn’t expected.
Mika had always seemed so sure of herself, so playful and bold in the way she threw dares and wrote teasing notes. But now Jules realised there was more to Mika—layers she hadn’t yet unraveled. She thought about the notebook, the dances Mika had apparently dazzled her friends with, and now this single red boot left behind like a breadcrumb in a trail Jules wasn’t sure how to follow. Was Mika testing her, or was she retreating? Jules couldn’t tell, and it made her chest ache in a way she didn’t entirely understand.
She felt like she was holding more than just a piece of footwear—this boot was a symbol, a fragment of the connection they’d been building. And yet, it was also a reminder of how fragile that connection was. Jules had thought she’d been playing this game with Mika, but maybe Mika wasn’t playing at all. Maybe she was trying, and Jules had been too wrapped up in her own bravado to see it. The idea of hurting Mika, of pushing her away, made Jules feel like her ribs were squeezing her heart. And yet, the thought of not trying to fix this, of letting Mika slip away, was unbearable.
Jules stared down at the boot, biting her lip, determination blooming quietly in her chest. She had to find Mika—not just for the notebook, not just for the game, but for the person behind it all. She needed to see her, to figure out what scared her, and maybe, just maybe, to tell her she didn’t have to be scared alone.
She hardly knew Mika; she knew little bits and bobs about her. Jules didn’t make connections like this. At least not this fast, so why was the idea of hurting Mika so unbearable? She’s just ‘Clue Girl,’ right?
Maybe, just maybe, she was so much more.
Jules was sitting cross-legged on the couch, the red boot resting on the coffee table in front of her as Lucas paced the room. "TDF," he muttered, tapping his chin. "Tina… Darlene… Fields? No, wait, Tanya Diana… Frosting?"
Jules gave him a deadpan look. "That’s the best you’ve got? Frosting?"
He grinned, unbothered. "Hey, I’m brainstorming here. It could be anything. Like, uh... The Dancing Ferret. Or Totally Delicious Fudge. Maybe she works in a bakery?"
Jules groaned, leaning her head back against the couch. "Can you focus? This is serious." She sat up and pointed at him. "Are you sure she didn’t leave the notebook at the pizza place?"
Lucas nodded, putting a hand over his heart. "Scout’s honor." I checked everywhere. No notebook."
Jules let out a frustrated sigh, sinking deeper into the cushions. "Great. So, I don’t know, maybe she’s trying to mess with me."
Lucas stopped pacing suddenly, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Wait, I’ve got it!"
"What?" Jules asked, sitting up.
Lucas snatched her phone off the table, ignoring her protest as he unlocked it. "Don’t freak out."
"Lucas, what are you doing?" Jules demanded, trying to grab the phone back.
He held it out of reach, thumbs flying across the screen. "Relax. I’m downloading something that’ll help us. Trust me."
"If this is another one of your weird apps, I swear—"
"It’s not weird," Lucas interrupted, holding up the phone triumphantly. "It’s genius. Behold: The Mommy App."
Jules blinked, unimpressed. "The what?"
Lucas rolled his eyes. "It’s an app where moms trade tips, sell stuff, and, more importantly, solve mysteries. These women are like detectives. You upload a picture of the boot, and voilà—within hours, someone will know where it came from."
Jules snatched the phone back, glaring. "You can’t just upload her boot to the internet! That’s against the rules of the game."
Lucas crossed his arms, unfazed. "If she didn’t leave the notebook, maybe she quit the game. What then?"
The words hit Jules harder than she expected. She stared down at the phone in her hands, her grip tightening. Quit? No. Mika wouldn’t do that… would she? The thought made her chest tighten, a pang of something sharp and unnameable coursing through her.
Lucas softened his tone, sitting down beside her. "Look, I get it. You don’t want to break the rules. But maybe this isn’t about the game anymore. Maybe it’s about finding her."
She didn’t want to admit it, but there was a pang of something like fear in her chest—fear that Mika really had quit. That she’d decided the whole thing wasn’t worth it, that Jules wasn’t worth it. The thought made her stomach twist uncomfortably. Was it because of the mirror message? Because Jules had pushed too far? She hated how the uncertainty gnawed at her. Mika had been so bold, so playful, and now she’d disappeared, leaving behind only this damn boot.
Jules felt Lucas glance at her as the notification chime of the app pinged faintly. His earlier comment rang in her ears: Maybe she quit. She hated the way it sat with her, like a tiny crack spreading across something fragile she’d been holding onto tightly. If Mika had given up, it would mean Jules had failed—not just in the game, but in understanding her. Jules had spent so much time deciphering Mika’s dares, imagining what she must be like, trying to unravel the girl who seemed so sure of herself on paper but left messages on mirrors that whispered of fear. And now, all of that might be slipping away.
Jules took her phone back from Lucas, gripping it a little tighter than necessary. "I’m going to look up TDF," she said, her voice sharper than she meant it to be. She didn’t wait for his reply before typing the letters into her search bar. A small part of her braced for nothing—an empty result, another dead end—but then something popped up: a shop with the same initials.
Without a word, she stood up, her resolve hardening. If Mika was leaving clues, Jules wasn’t going to ignore them. She wasn’t ready to give up on her—on this—yet. Whatever waited at TDF, Jules knew she had to see it for herself. Even if it meant facing the possibility that Mika was done playing. Even if it meant finding out that maybe she was the one who had driven her away.
Jules and Lucas stepped into TDF, a small, chic boutique lined with shelves of impeccably maintained vintage accessories. A woman behind the counter, dressed sharply in a tailored jacket, looked up from her laptop.
"Can I help you?" she asked, her tone polite but indifferent.
Jules placed the red boot on the counter. "This boot. It was rented from here, right?"
The woman’s brow furrowed slightly as she leaned forward to inspect it. "Yes, it’s one of ours. This was rented out and never returned. Though someone did send cash to pay for it after the fact."
Jules exchanged a look with Lucas, hope flickering in her chest. "Who rented it?"
The woman glanced at her computer. "Mikaela St. Dubois."
Jules broke into a grin, her heart racing. She turned to Lucas, laughing softly. "Mika. That’s Mika."
Lucas smirked. "That’s a fake name if I’ve ever heard one."
"Sure," Jules said, still smiling. "But it’s her. I know it is."
The woman cleared her throat. "The last name might be fake, but everything else checks out. Why?"
"Was there a return address?" Jules asked, hopeful.
The woman tilted her head, studying Jules for a moment before responding. "Hold on a second. I thought you wanted to return the boot to the original owner."
"Yeah," Jules said, nodding.
The woman picked up the boot and said, "Well, that’s us. We’re the original owner."
"Wait, whoa," Jules exclaimed, holding out her hands in protest.
Lucas interjected, "Mika paid for it—it’s hers now."
The woman shook her head, smiling faintly. "Technically, the boat belongs to us."
She turned to walk away with the boot, but Jules followed her. "No, no, you don’t understand—I need that boot."
The woman paused and looked over her shoulder. "I’ve got things to do."
"This isn’t just about a boot!" Jules blurted, her voice rising slightly.
The woman raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "Oh? Then what is it about?"
Jules hesitated for a second before stepping closer, her voice quieter but urgent. "I don’t let people get to know me. It’s… safer that way. But this girl, Mika, she’s different. We’ve only met through her words, but… she gets me in a way no one else does. She was supposed to leave a message for me at a club, but instead, all she left was this boot. And if I lose this lead, I might lose her."
The woman crossed her arms, considering. "Like Cinderella?"
Jules winced at the comparison, inwardly cringing but nodding slightly. "Yeah, sure, if you want to put it that way. But I’m not crazy—I’m just a girl with a boot, asking you to help me find… my Cinderella."
The woman studied Jules for a long moment before sighing. "I’m not one to stand in the way of true love." She handed back the book along with a slip of paper. "This is the address on file."
Jules took the boot and the paper, clutching them tightly. "Thank you. Really."
As the woman disappeared into the back of the shop, Lucas leaned casually against the counter, watching Jules clutch the boot and the address like they were lifelines. He smirked. "So… did you mean what you said back there? About love and Cinderella?"
Jules rolled her eyes, trying to play it cool. "No. I just said that to get the address."
Lucas raised an eyebrow, clearly not buying it. "Uh-huh. Sure, you did."
Ignoring his teasing, Jules straightened up and glanced at the slip of paper in her hand. The address stared back at her, a tantalising clue.
"So, what’s the plan now?" Lucas asked, crossing his arms.
Jules exhaled slowly, her resolve hardening. "I'm going to the address."
Lucas grinned. "Figured you’d say that."
Jules tucked the boot under her arm and headed for the door, Lucas following behind. Despite her nonchalant demeanour, her heart raced. She tried not to think too hard about the possibility that Mika might not even be there—or worse, that she’d be met with a closed door. But for once, Jules decided to push aside her doubts.
This was her next move, and she was going to take it.
Jules and Lucas stood on the sidewalk outside the modest, ivy-covered house. Jules shifted her weight nervously, staring at the boot in her hand. The world felt quieter than it should have, as if everything had paused to watch her make this decision.
"Just ring the bell already," Lucas said, nudging her with his elbow.
Jules shot him a look. "What if she doesn’t want to see me? What if she slams the door in my face? You should talk to her first."
"Me?" Lucas asked incredulously. "I don’t even know her. Why would I talk to her before you do?"
"Because…" Jules hesitated, searching for an excuse. "You’re, like, better at breaking the ice. You could be my Cyrano. Just tell her how sorry I am and—" She pushed the boot into his hands. "—explain everything for me. Please."
Lucas sighed, but seeing the panic in her eyes, he relented. "Okay. If you want me to."
Jules nodded rapidly, stepping back. "Good. Yes. Do it. Just—" She waved him off.
Lucas walked toward the steps, the boot in hand, but before he could even reach the door, Jules blurted out, "Wait! Wait, wait, wait!"
He turned around, raising an eyebrow.
"I can’t," Jules said, pacing. "I can’t just leave. What if you say the wrong thing? What if she thinks I’m too much of a coward to come myself? Nope, nope, nope—I gotta do this." She strode over, snatched the boot back from him, and spun on her heel. "But you’ve got to go."
Lucas blinked. "Seriously?"
"Seriously. This is a Jules-and-Mika moment."
Lucas smirked, throwing his hands up. "Fine. Good luck." He turned and walked away, leaving Jules to face the door.
Taking a deep breath, Jules stepped up to the door, the boot feeling absurdly heavy in her hand. Her heart raced as she raised her finger to the bell. She hesitated, biting her lip.
Just do it, she told herself.
She pressed the doorbell, the sound reverberating in her ears. After a moment, the door opened, and Jules looked up... only to find herself face-to-face with an older woman. The woman had a warm smile and kind eyes, her hair tied back in a loose bun.
"You found my boot," the woman said, her tone pleasantly surprised.
Jules blinked, taken aback. "W-what?"
The woman tilted her head. "That’s my boot."
Jules stared at her, confused. "Uh, no. I mean—Mika? Is Mika here?"
The woman’s smile widened. "Born Mikaela, yes."
Jules looked at her like she’d just been told the sky was green. "Wait. You’re Mika?"
The woman chuckled softly. "That’s me."
Jules’s head was spinning. "Did you, um... go to a punk show last night?"
The woman’s laugh deepened. "Not last night, no."
"Okay…" Jules said, her brow furrowing. "Have you been, uh… writing to someone in a red notebook?"
Recognition flashed in the woman’s eyes, and she smiled knowingly. "Ah. Now I understand why you’re here." She gestured toward the house. "Coffee?"
Jules blinked. "Always," she said automatically, her confusion still evident.
The woman stepped aside, letting Jules in. As Jules crossed the threshold, clutching the book like it was a lifeline, she couldn’t help but wonder just how deep she had fallen into this mystery.
Jules leaned back on the slightly worn couch, her fingers tapping nervously against her legs. The room smelt faintly of cinnamon and cedarwood, a cosy scent that contrasted sharply with the whirlwind of thoughts in her head. The house was warm and cluttered, with books stacked in uneven piles, old photographs lining the walls, and a strange assortment of trinkets scattered across every surface—a delicate glass bird on the mantle, a tiny brass compass on the coffee table, and a clock that ticked just a little too loudly.
As she waited, Jules couldn’t help but let her eyes wander, curiosity battling with impatience. Does she live here alone? The house felt alive, not in a bustling way, but like it had a pulse, a history written into every corner. Jules noticed an old framed photograph on the bookshelf—a young girl with the same dark curls as Mika, standing next to a smiling woman who looked strikingly familiar.
Her thoughts turned inward. Is this really happening? Am I sitting in the house of the Mika I’ve been writing to? And what is this woman’s deal? Why won’t she just answer my questions? She felt the boot still in her lap, its presence both comforting and maddening.
The soft clink of cups startled her. The woman had returned, holding two mugs of coffee and wearing a knowing smile. She set one down in front of Jules, who immediately reached for it.
“Let me put you at ease,” the woman said, her voice calm but pointed.
Jules flinched, turning around to meet the woman’s eyes.
The woman continued, “I’m not the Mika you’re seeking.”
Jules froze mid-sip. “Wait. What?”
The woman settled into an armchair across from her, her expression unreadable.
“Then… is there another Mika here?” Jules asked, her tone sharp with hope.
The woman ignored the question entirely, leaning forward slightly. “Who are you, exactly?”
Jules hesitated, her grip tightening on the mug. "Well, I’m Jules, and, uh... she and I have been writing to each other in this red notebook—"
The woman interrupted with a sly smile. “Which I gave to her, along with my red boots. You’re looking for my great-niece.”
Jules sat up straighter. "Wait, you’re Mrs. Basil E?”
The woman chuckled, nodding. “That’s her nickname for me. When Mika and her sister were little, I used to send them on hunts in museums inspired by the book From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler.”
Jules grinned despite herself. “Yeah, I’ve read it. Classic.”
The woman’s smile deepened. “Well then, great. You’re clearly literate. So, let’s get to the point.”
Jules perked up. "Can I talk to her?"
Instead of answering, the woman stared at her, the amusement in her eyes replaced with something more calculating. “Are you in love with her?”
“What?!” Jules nearly dropped her coffee. "No! I—I don’t even know her."
The woman didn’t react immediately. She simply leaned back, taking her coffee cup with her. “Then I’m not really interested.”
Jules gaped as the woman stood, cool as ever, and began walking away. "Wait! Whoa, whoa, whoa—hold on a second!"
The woman turned slightly, her smirk resurfacing. “I’m not entirely sure you’re right for my Mika anyway.”
Jules blinked, caught off guard. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
The woman tilted her head. “Tell me, Jules. Do you believe in fairies? The power of wishes?”
Jules snorted. "No. I’m not someone who believes in things like that."
The woman’s sharp gaze softened ever so slightly as she cradled her coffee mug, her lips curling into a faint smirk. “You believed you could find a girl with a boot,” she said, her voice light but cutting.
Jules sighed, frustration bubbling beneath the surface. “Could you just tell me where she is?”
The woman leaned back in her chair, her expression turning distant. “Her grandfather would never let you see her,” she said, shaking her head. “He guards her like a jewel. He won’t even let me see her.”
Jules blinked, surprised. “But… you’re family.”
“That doesn’t mean much to him,” the woman replied flatly, her tone tinged with bitterness. “Why would I open an old wound? To deliver a message from someone Mika might not even want to hear in the first place?”
The words hit Jules like a punch to the chest, but she swallowed the sting. She nodded slowly, unsure of what to say, then forced the words out anyway. “Okay, listen. I just… Look, last night I did something that—” She exhaled sharply, her hands gripping the mug tightly. “It scared her, and I haven’t talked to her since. I haven’t heard from her since. And I don’t know if she’s hurt, or if something’s happened, or if—”
Her voice cracked, and she stopped, staring down at her hands. “I’m just trying to make sure she’s okay.”
The woman tilted her head, her eyes narrowing slightly. “Why?”
“Why?” Jules echoed, as if the answer should be obvious. She paused, her voice faltering as she tried to find the right words.
Jules stared at her hands, her knuckles white against the mug. Then she looked up, meeting the woman’s gaze with a rare vulnerability. “Why? Because I care about her,” she said quietly, her voice thick with emotion.
The room felt still for a moment, the air heavy with the weight of Jules’s confession.
The woman’s expression softened, a knowing smile creeping across her face. “That’s more like it,” she said, her voice warm.
Jules exhaled, feeling a strange mix of relief and anxiety. The woman leaned forward slightly, setting her mug down with a gentle clink. “Alright,” she said, her tone shifting to something almost playful. “Let’s see what we can do about this boot situation.”
Mika was curled up on the couch, absentmindedly thumbing through her phone while her grandfather played poker with his friends at the dining table. Their laughter and the sound of cards shuffling filled the room. She was startled when a knock came at the door.
"I got it!" Mika called out, standing up and brushing crumbs off her sweatshirt. She opened the door and blinked in surprise.
"Mrs. Basil E!" she exclaimed, a mixture of joy and confusion on her face. Standing there was her godmother, wrapped in a heavy coat and wearing her signature warm but mysterious smile.
“Hello, dear,” the older woman said, her voice carrying a knowing lilt. She studied Mika for a moment. “Are you alright?”
Mika hesitated, then shrugged. “To be honest? A little rocky.”
Mrs. Basil E nodded thoughtfully and stepped inside. “Then let’s sit,” she said, guiding Mika toward the small kitchen table. They both took a seat, the sound of poker talk fading into the background.
“That’s because you only have one boot,” she said, her tone light yet pointed.
Mika frowned in confusion. “How do you know about that?”
The older woman smiled knowingly, her eyes twinkling. “A young woman tracked it to me.”
Mika froze for a moment, her thoughts racing. “Notebook girl?” she asked, a huge smile breaking across her face as realisation dawned.
Mikaela chuckled softly. “Very impressive detective work. The work of someone who really cares.”
Mika leaned back, trying to process the sudden rush of emotions. Excitement, dread, and a flicker of hope all fought for dominance in her chest. She tracked it down… because she cares? For a moment, Mika let herself believe it could be true.
Mika’s heart raced as her godmother’s words sank in. Notebook Girl tracked it to me. The thought sent a jolt of both excitement and unease through her. Jules had been looking for her, retracing her steps, unravelling the mystery piece by piece.
Mika imagined her holding her boot, that tiny part of herself she’d left behind in a moment of panic and self-doubt. The idea that someone—someone like Notebook Girl—had gone to such lengths made her feel special, seen, and yet undeserving all at once.
Her mind flitted between scenarios: ‘Cindy’ smiling at her, or frowning in disappointment, or realising she wasn’t the girl in the notebook after all. How could Notebook Girl still care, knowing Mika had run away? The thought stirred a mix of gratitude and fear, making her chest tighten as conflicting emotions wrestled within her.
“She wouldn’t if she’d seen me,” Mika said finally, her voice wavering. “I was… a disaster. It was embarrassing.”
Her godmother tilted her head, her eyes softening. “She’s worried about you,” she said gently.
Mika shook her head, forcing a dry laugh. “She’s worried about the girl in her head,” she replied. “And last night… last night I proved I’m not her. I tried to be, but I blew it. If she knew, she wouldn’t be looking for me.”
Her godmother regarded her with a knowing smile, the kind that made Mika feel both comforted and called out. “You could always ask her yourself,” she said, her voice calm but deliberate. “I had her keep the boot, just in case. After all, in this scenario, it’s the princess who returns the shoe, not the fairy godmother.”
Mika froze, her breath catching in her throat. Her mind reeled with excuses, her fear wrapping around her like a heavy cloak. “I can’t,” she said, her voice breaking. “Even if I wanted to talk to her, I—”
She was cut off by her grandfather’s booming voice from across the room. “She’s forbidden.”
Mika and her godmother turned as he stood, towering with authority, his poker face now replaced by a steely glare. He motioned for his friends to leave, and they gathered their things in a tense silence, shuffling out the door.
Her godmother straightened in her chair, her face composed but her tone sharp. “Why is Mika forbidden?”
“This is family business,” her grandfather snapped, his eyes narrowing. “You don’t have the right to meddle in it.”
Mika’s stomach churned as she looked between them, her heart sinking at the weight of her grandfather’s disapproval. The warmth of the moment with her grandmother evaporated, replaced by the cold reminder of the control he held over her life. She tightened her grip on the table’s edge, her voice caught in her throat as the argument loomed, casting a shadow over everything.
Mika leaned against the kitchen doorway, arms folded, watching her godmother and grandfather talk in the living room. Their conversation was low and intense, punctuated by her grandfather’s gestures and her godmother’s calm manner. Mika could sense the weight of it but couldn’t quite make out the words.
Behind her, she heard a familiar voice. “At least you got to go to a club for once in your life before, you know, it’s probably over forever,” Chloe said, leaning against the counter and raising an eyebrow at her sister.
Mika sighed, her gaze still fixed on the scene in front of her. “You’re not helping.”
“I’m just saying,” Chloe replied, smirking faintly. “Last hurrah and all that.”
Mika frowned, her sister’s words swirling in her head. Is that it? Was that my last chance to live a little? She thought about the club, about the notebook, about Jules. And then she thought about her life here—boxed in, tightly controlled. Her fists clenched, and her mind made up.
“Fine,” Mika muttered, straightening her posture.
“What’s fine?” Chloe asked, but Mika was already moving.
Mika stepped into the living room, her voice steady and deliberate. “That’s it. This is my life, and I sho—”
She stopped abruptly as her grandfather turned to her, his eyes rimmed with red, tears streaming down his face. Mika froze, her resolve crumbling into concern.
“What did you say to him?” she demanded, looking at her godmother.
Her godmother’s face softened, and she shook her head. “Mika, you and your grandfather should talk.”
Mika’s brow furrowed. “Grandpa, I’m sorry. I won’t ever—”
“Mika,” her godmother interrupted gently, “this is not about you.”
Mika blinked, stunned into silence.
Her godmother placed a hand on her shoulder. “You’re strong enough to handle this,” she said, her tone full of quiet confidence.
“I can’t,” Mika said, shaking her head. Her voice wavered. “I can’t. He’s crying. What am I supposed to do with that?”
Her godmother stepped back and gave her a pointed look. “Argue for your limitations, and they are surely yours.”
“What does that even mean?” Mika asked, exasperated, but her godmother only smiled faintly.
“I hope to see you all soon,” she said, brushing past Mika and heading for the door.
Mika watched her leave, then turned back to her grandfather, who had sat down heavily on the couch. She hesitated for a moment before walking over and sitting beside him.
“What’s wrong?” she asked softly.
Her grandfather rubbed his face, sighing deeply before looking at her. “I proposed to Mary.”
Mika’s eyes widened. “You did? That’s… great?”
He let out a humourless laugh. “She turned me down.”
Mika’s heart sank. “That’s why you’re home?”
He nodded, and for a moment, the only sound was the murmur of a poker game on the television.
“I’m so sorry,” Mika said gently. “I thought you two seemed so… happy.”
Her grandfather nodded again, his gaze distant. “We were.”
Mika watched her grandfather wipe at his eyes, his gruff exterior cracking in a way she had never seen before. She felt small and unsure, caught between wanting to comfort him and wanting answers. Still, she pushed forward, her voice soft. “Why did she say no?”
He sighed, staring at the floor. “She doesn’t want to move to Seattle.”
“Well, duh,” Mika said, leaning back slightly with a wry smile. “You always visit her because the weather’s nice, and she has a pool.”
He let out a quiet chuckle despite himself. “I live in Seattle. Family lives in Seattle,” he said, his voice tinged with resignation.
Mika nodded. “I know,” she said, then tilted her head. “But… do you love her?”
Her grandfather paused for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he said, quietly, “She makes me feel… less lonely.”
The vulnerability in his voice made Mika’s heart ache. “I know what that feels like,” she said softly. “And it’s nice.”
He nodded, still not meeting her eyes.
Mika leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table. “Do you even like Florida?”
He hesitated again, then said, “Yes. For two reasons.”
Mika rolled her eyes. “Then talk to her. Work it out. There are worse things than sitting by a pool feeling less lonely.”
He gave her a look, equal parts amused and thoughtful. “I’ll think about it,” he said.
The room settled into silence for a moment before he cleared his throat. “I came home so I wouldn’t be alone for Christmas, and then I found a naked boy in Chloe’s room and you out all night,” he said, his voice grumbling but with a faint trace of humour.
Mika flushed with embarrassment. “Okay, fair point.”
He looked at her, his expression softening. “I overreacted,” he admitted. “How about I take you out for ice cream to apologise?”
Mika smiled at the offer but shook her head. “Actually, you know what I’d really like?”
The bell jingled as Mika pushed open the door to Adams’ House, the warm, familiar smell of coffee and grilled sandwiches wrapping around her like a blanket. Her grandfather shuffled in behind her, looking around for an open seat.
“I’ll order for both of us,” Mika said, adjusting the strap of her bag.
“Just—no mushrooms,” her grandfather replied, wrinkling his nose as he headed toward a booth by the window.
Mika stood at the counter, her heart thudding in her chest.
Lucas looked up, and his eyes widened in shock. “Oh my god. Oh my god, it’s you,” he said, his voice rising with excitement. “We’ve been looking for you everywhere. Literally all over the place.”
When Lucas recognised her, his wide-eyed enthusiasm and quick words hit her like a warm wave of relief and guilt all at once. They were looking for me.
“I’m sorry,” she started, words tumbling out as she tried to explain. “I got freaked out and ran, and I—”
The impatient voice of a customer cut through her apology, yanking her back to the present. This was her moment to set things right.
Mika took a breath, pulled the red notebook from her bag, and slid it toward Lucas with as much calm as she could muster. “You deliver, right?” she asked, her voice steadier than she felt.
“Well, I’m—I’m on counter duty right now,” Lucas stammered, his hands twitching toward the notebook like it was a lifeline.
Mika narrowed her eyes, her resolve solidifying. “It’s time-sensitive,” she insisted. “It has to be placed by 5:00 p.m. Can you do that?”
She watched Lucas take the notebook, his expression flipping between excitement and determination before he spun and bolted out of the store. Mika couldn’t help the small, amused smile that pulled at her lips.
Her heart lightened, even as her nerves tangled. He’s got it. It’s out of my hands now. Out of my hands… finally.
She felt lighter, like the weight of everything she’d been holding onto—her fears, her doubts, her need to be perfect—was easing off her shoulders. But then came the tug of uncertainty. What if Jules didn’t understand? What if it wasn’t enough?
Mika shook her head and forced herself to focus. She’d done her part. Now it was Jules’ turn to decide.
Jules sat curled up on her worn couch, a book in her hands that she’d been trying to read for the past hour. The words blurred together, not because they weren’t interesting, but because her mind kept wandering back to Mika. She had run every possible scenario through her head, from Mika being angry at her to Mika just... forgetting about her entirely. That thought stung the most.
Jules wasn’t used to this kind of vulnerability, the sort that left her checking her phone every few minutes or reading the same paragraph over and over because she couldn’t concentrate. She hated how this girl—this stranger in so many ways—had gotten under her skin so thoroughly. But it wasn’t just the notebook, or the clues, or even the playful banter in their words.
It was the way Mika had managed to crack something open inside her, something Jules had kept locked away for years. And yet, there was a part of her that was terrified Mika would see too much, that she’d look at Jules and realise she wasn’t worth the chase. This is ridiculous, Jules thought, closing the book with a sigh. She stared at the cover, tracing the title with her thumb. You don’t even know her.
A sudden knock at the door broke her trance. Her heart jumped—she wasn’t expecting anyone. She set the book aside, her pulse quickening as she stood.
Opening the door, she found Lucas standing there, slightly out of breath, his cheeks flushed from the cold. In his hand, he held the red notebook.
“Five… Five p.m.,” Lucas panted, shoving the notebook toward her. “Take the Q train.”
Jules blinked, confused and startled.
Jules stared at Lucas, wide-eyed. “Wait, what? The Q train?” she asked, glancing at the notebook he was holding out to her.
“Yes! Five pm, Jules!” Lucas said, practically shoving the notebook into her hands. “You’ve got, like, no time. Just—go! Right now! Right now! Go!”
“Lucas, where did you even find this?” Jules demanded, still rooted in place.
“In the movie section,” he said, waving his hands impatiently. “Does it matter? Jules, you need to go, like, yesterday!”
Jules clutched the notebook to her chest, her heart racing. “She... she left this for me?”
“Yes, and she said five pm. As in, you’ve got ten minutes to get to the train station and—why are you still standing here?! Go!”
Jules blinked, snapping out of her daze. “Right, right! Okay, I’m going!” She grabbed her coat, slipping it on hurriedly.
Lucas groaned. “Oh my god, Jules, just go! Stop overthinking everything and run!”
Jules didn’t need to be told twice. She bolted out the door, the notebook still clutched tightly in her hand, her pulse thundering in her ears. The idea of seeing Mika again filled her with equal parts hope and terror. But no matter what was waiting for her at the Q train, she knew she had to try.
Jules ran through the crowded streets, her breath visible in the cold December air as she made her way to the train station. Her chest tightened, but not from the exertion—it was the anticipation, the hope that had been steadily building since Lucas had handed her the notebook. She clutched it tightly, her heart pounding in sync with her hurried steps.
As the train roared into the station, she hopped on, finding a corner to lean against. She flipped open the notebook, and Mika's familiar handwriting greeted her:
I’m sorry I messed up the game.
When I first got to that club, I was so worried about what people were thinking about me that all I could see was… the bad stuff. I don’t do well with bad stuff or bad feelings. I always tell myself (and I know this is cliché): “When there is rain, look for the rainbow.” But I couldn’t find one, so I ran.
Then I saw your message.
Something about knowing that you knew how I felt made it okay to go back out there. And this time, I saw the good. People having fun. I could join them or stay in my shell. I joined them, and it was like a whole new world opened up to me. I wanted to do the same for you.
Go to Candy Cane Lane.
Start at the first house; make your way through the neighbourhood.
The first house, everyone calls the “Nutcracker House.” You’ll know why when you see it.
Jules’s fingers lingered on the page, her lips curving into a faint smile despite herself. She leaned her head back against the cool window of the train, watching as the city blurred past, and clung to Mika’s words like they were the only thing keeping her grounded.
When the train reached her stop, she stepped out, the festive glow of Candy Cane Lane visible even from a distance. She followed the lights, Mika’s words echoing in her mind.
Jules stood frozen on the sidewalk, her breath clouding in the crisp December air as she took in the spectacle before her. The house was bursting with lights—strings of them cascading from the roof like waterfalls, draped around the windows, and wrapping every tree and bush in a kaleidoscope of color. A life-sized nutcracker army flanked the driveway, their painted wooden faces illuminated in the glow of thousands of tiny bulbs. The whole scene was a chaotic, glittering mess of holiday cheer, and Jules couldn’t help but laugh under her breath.
Too much. It’s way too much, she thought, though the corners of her mouth tugged into a reluctant smile. She couldn’t deny the charm of it, the earnestness. It was as if the house itself was shouting into the night, “Look at me! Look how much I care!” And wasn’t that the point? To throw caution to the wind, to embrace the ridiculous, the over-the-top, because joy didn’t have to make sense.
Are you there?
Jules stood in front of the house, catching her breath, clutching the notebook close. The neighbourhood shimmered with lights, an over-the-top spectacle of holiday cheer. She felt overwhelmed, unsure of where to begin. The words on the page nudged at her, pulling her back into the rhythm of the game.
“Yes,” she said aloud, her voice soft. “I am here, Mika.”
Write down what you see.
Jules hesitated, glancing around. The house in front of her—undoubtedly the "Nutcracker house" Mika had mentioned—was covered in plastic nutcrackers, inflatable Santas, and blinking reindeer. It was loud, gaudy, and completely over the top.
I see plastic nutcrackers, fake Santas… and nothing that’s real.
Look again. Give it another chance.
Jules sighed and tried again, this time forcing herself to linger, to really take in the scene. Slowly, the details began to emerge, hidden beneath the glare of the bright lights.
I see… An older couple, standing in front of the house. They’re taking a picture together, just like they probably do every year. I imagine they’ve been doing it for decades—years of photographs framed on their wall, each marking another holiday spent together.
I see them holding hands. And I think… they must know each other so well. Like, the kind of knowing that doesn’t need words. The kind that’s just there, like gravity.
The couple smiled as they posed, leaning into each other with a kind of quiet ease that made Jules’s chest ache in a way she couldn’t quite explain.
As she moved through the neighbourhood, Jules let herself sink into the glow of it all. The garish decorations, the swirling colours, the people bundled up and laughing, the children pointing at displays in delight—it wasn’t just a collection of lights and ornaments. It was connection. History. Joy.
Her thoughts turned inward as she walked, feeling the warmth of the scene begin to thaw something in her she hadn’t even realised was frozen. It wasn’t perfect—it was messy and loud and imperfectly beautiful, like everything worth holding onto.
For the first time in a long time, Jules smiled—not just with her lips, but with her whole being.
Jules stepped closer, her boots crunching on the frost-covered sidewalk, her heart feeling lighter with every step. For the first time in a long time, she wasn’t analysing or second-guessing. She wasn’t worrying about how she looked or what she’d say. She was just… here, standing in front of a house so alive with light it seemed to vibrate, and it was enough.
She thought of Mika’s words in the notebook, the way she’d described seeing the good after running from the bad. Jules had been there too, countless times, consumed by the weight of everything going wrong. But here, in front of this ridiculous Nutcracker house that someone had poured their heart into, she felt a flicker of something brighter. Maybe this was Mika’s rainbow, Jules thought.
She hugged the notebook closer to her chest, the cold stinging her cheeks, and let herself smile fully this time. For the first time in a long while, Jules felt the edges of her world softening, like she was standing at the threshold of something unexpected and magical. Maybe even worth running towards.
As Jules walked through the neighbourhood, the glow of Christmas lights painted her face with shifting hues of red, green, and gold. She couldn’t help but glance back at the older couple standing in front of the Nutcracker house, their hands intertwined, faces lit with quiet joy. Their easy comfort with each other stirred something deep in her chest. What must it feel like to know someone so completely? To have a history that wraps around you like a warm coat against the cold? Jules wondered. She envied them, their shared world of old photos, memories, and familiarity. But at the same time, it gave her a sense of hope—maybe that kind of connection wasn’t something you stumbled upon by chance. Maybe it was built, piece by piece, through moments like these.
She kept walking, taking in the neighborhood. Each house had its own personality, some brimming with carefully arranged lights, others with wild displays of inflatable snowmen and reindeer. The scent of pine and frost filled the air, and laughter drifted from a group of kids running from house to house, pretending to be elves. Jules noticed how much effort everyone had put into their decorations—how each house seemed to say, Look, this is what we love. This is who we are. And in that, she saw the good.
I told myself I didn’t fit in anywhere and just kept hoping that one day something would magically change. But, little-known fact, the word abracadabra comes from an Arabic phrase, ‘avra kadabra,’ meaning ‘I create as I speak.’ We make our own magic. This notebook is magic, and we see what we look for. I hope you’ll keep looking for the good stuff. But, to help you out, be at the last house when the clock strikes five. I’ll send you a sign.
Jules found herself outside the last house on the street. It was grand but modestly decorated, a single string of lights outlining the roof. She stood there, her breath fogging the air, notebook clutched to her chest. Her heart raced as she checked her watch—just a few seconds to go.
When the clock struck five, the lights on the house flickered to life, illuminating the night. A wave of colour and brilliance washed over the property, and at the centre of it all was a glowing word that made Jules stop in her tracks: Believe.
Jules smiled despite herself, her chest tightening with emotion. Believe. It was simple, yet it felt monumental. It was as if the lights themselves were speaking directly to her, reminding her that magic wasn’t something you waited for—it was something you created. She thought of Mika, of their words shared through the notebook, of the way they had built something fragile but beautiful between them. And for the first time in a long time, Jules felt a spark of faith—not just in Mika, but in herself.
"I believe in you, Notebook Girl. Do you still believe in me?"
Jules took a deep breath, and her thoughts were consumed. Yes, Mika. I do. I’m starting to think that I believe in us, too.
She looked around, taking in the way the lights reflected off the fresh snow, how the air seemed to hum with warmth despite the cold. The world felt bigger and more alive, like there was something just out of reach, waiting for her to discover it. But then, her phone buzzed in her pocket.
Jules hesitated before pulling it out. Her smile faltered as she read the message. It was from Benson:
Back in town. Can I see you?
Her chest tightened, the lingering ache of old wounds brushing against the fragile hope she’d been nurturing tonight. She glanced back up at the glowing word above the house: Believe. It steadied her, reminded her of what mattered.
She slipped the phone back into her pocket, her focus returning to the night around her. The magic she’d found didn’t belong to the past—it belonged to the moment and to what came next.