Tuesday the 13th, Morning, 10 o'clock (I think)

Dear Diary,

Today I found something wonderful in the yard. You won't believe it. It's the most unlikely thing to find in the yard. It was a girl, just standing there. That's right. That's how I found her, just standing there. I didn't know what she was doing there or how she'd gotten there. But that's how I found her. I'll tell you her name—I asked her. I saw her standing there, and I asked her name. And she told me. Her name's...

Hold on, my momma is calling me for dinner. I'll be right back.

Friday the 23rd, Evening, 5:54

Dear Diary,

I'm back. I forgot that my momma has been dead a long time. She couldn't have been calling me from downstairs. It's just a ghost of her that lives there. I'll tell you about her. See, the ghost or not, momma is still momma. But anyway, she made food and she was calling me for dinner. Dinner was good. It's always good. I don't like it. Dinner's always good. Sometimes I want to eat something not so good, just so I can draw a comparison, and then I'll know how good a good dinner really is.

But ghost momma doesn't understand that, of course. She thinks I'm ungrateful and very unhelpful. But my room is upstairs, so I can't possibly help her in the kitchen, can I? She doesn't like anything I do. But my momma was the same, so it's not ghost momma that's wrong.

But did you know I keep finding hair in the food lately? Hair in everything. In the bread, in the chicken, in the jam, everywhere I find hair.

So I told her about the hair. I told her it's everywhere.

"Well, it must be yours, inni' like?"

She said that very surely, but I was shocked.

"How could it be mine, mama?"

I asked her very calmly because she'd get started if I said anything more.

"My hair's not that fair though, is it?"

"And mine's not so long, mama."

But she wouldn't get it. She kept saying it was my hair in the food. But how could it be mine? She says it flies everywhere. And now she finds hair in her food too. And every day she finds hair and scolds me for it.

What do you say? Should I cut my hair off? All of it? I don't like hair. But momma says girls are supposed to have long hair.

I forgot to brush my teeth. I can't sleep if I don't brush my teeth. I'll be right back.

P.S. I hate Artie. He's my brother. I'll tell you about him later.

Monday the 26th, Morning, 8:43

Dear Diary,

I'm going to call you Diane. It's the name I gave you last summer. I'll call you Diane again.

Dear Diane,

If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.

Do you like your name? I like your name. I wish I had a name like that. It reminds me of fur coats. I would like a fur coat, Diane. I've never had a fur coat. I've never seen one either. But I read about it in a book. I can't find my book, Diane. I lost it in the tree house. And momma doesn't let me go out into the yard anymore.

Do you think it's because of that girl? Oh, I haven't told you about that girl yet, Diane. I found her in the yard. But momma doesn't know about the girl. So I don't think it's about her, Diane.

I meant to tell you about my brother as well.

I hate Artie. I think it's unfair that he got to leave while I'm still locked up here. But it's been a long time since he left, so I don't hate him anymore. I try not to think of Artie.

Artie never came back. I thought he would, but he never did. And he never wrote a letter either. Momma was waiting for him. Not ghost momma—the real momma. She was waiting for him before she died.

Artie said he'd build another floor for the tree house. But then he left. The tree house doesn't have another floor. Don't you think it's unfair to want him to come back to this lock up?

You're right, Diane. I don't hate him for leaving. I don't hate him for not coming back. But when Artie left, momma built the walls high up. So even from my window, I can't see much beyond the wall, even though my window is so high up. And she had a tree planted right in front of my window so I couldn't look out. Now it's grown all in front, so I can't see anything.

And then momma died.

And I was telling you about Pupa. She's the girl I met in the yard. I'll tell you about her tomorrow, Diane.

Tuesday the 27th, Morning, 9:01

Dearest Diane,

As promised, I'm here on time today to tell you about Pupa.

If this is the way the world has decided to be, then fine, suit yourself.

I read that somewhere in a book. That book is probably lost now. I can never find a book I've read once. It's still probably out there somewhere, so it's not that lost.

But here I am going on about something else again. I was going to tell you about Pupa. I'm sure by now you must be really curious, Diane. Well, you should be. Pupa is amazing.

But before I tell you about her, I should tell you about her progress from the other day. Well, I must say, it's been over a week, and Pupa's just been standing there. I'm no longer allowed to go out into the yard anymore, but I caught a glimpse of her from my window. If I lean very far, I can see her in the yard.

And she's still there. Pupa doesn't say a thing. It wasn't that she told me her name, but I knew it anyway. I know her name's Pupa. You have to believe me, Diane.

Anyway, the other day see, when I could still go into the yard, I asked her a lot of things and told her about myself. I was digging for worms, and I told her she could join me. But she didn't. That's okay, I wasn't mad. She was happy just standing there.

And she just watched me doing it. She didn't stop me like momma does. She just watched me without saying anything. It looks like she's waiting for something. But why in our yard? I like her. I'm glad she's in our yard.

Why do I like her, you say, Diane? Well, she doesn't talk, but I know she understands everything.

P.S. I found a bucket full of worms that day—a record to show Artie.

Thursday the 29th, Afternoon, 4:56

Dear Diane,

It's a rain day today. Every other day is a rain day. Rain makes all the worms come out. But I have to wait for the sun day to catch worms. I'm not allowed in the yard still, so I don't care about the rain day.

Only, I hope Pupa is alright. She's been standing there ever since. I lean very far out of my window, and if it isn't windy, and the tree isn't moving so much, I can see her. But I'll fall right down into the yard if I lean so far out for too long.

But I can't be in the yard, so I can't watch Pupa for too long.

Why do I like her, you ask, Diane?

Well, she's the prettiest in the whole wide world.

Though I've not seen the whole wide world, I've only ever seen Momma and Artie, and they're both pretty. But Pupa is the prettiest in the whole wide world. You've got to believe me, Diane.

Of course, I think you're pretty too. But I wasn't counting you there for a second, Diane. I wasn't counting me either. We're talking, so we don't need to count ourselves, do we, Diane?

And here I was telling you why she's the prettiest in the whole wide world.

I'll tell you why that is.

Pupa is endless.

Pupa is an army of camellias on a green hedge wall.

Pupa is silent.

Pupa is golden Damask on a red wall.

Pupa is a Russian matryoshka doll without a face.

Pupa is doors. Infinite doors. All in succession.

Pupa is eyes. Blue eyes. And red eyes. Blinking. Grey eyes. Red eyes.

And it is Pupa that is the flickering light in those eyes.

Pupa is the child that just woke up.

Pupa is sleepy. No, she's sleep itself.

Pupa is roots. Infinite roots. All the way up into the sky.

Pupa is a river flowing into the flaming sky.

Pupa is the red fox on a bridge.

Pupa is the last frontier of all mankind.

Pupa is the flowing sliver hair of the moon.

Pupa is blue. A better blue than all the skies.

Pupa is a rainbow of all the people. All the people with their eyes set on her.

Pupa is bewilderment.

Pupa is the red lips.

Pupa is the wide-eyed stare.

Pupa is the half-opened mouth.

Pupa is the mole on milk-white skin.

Pupa is the infinite depth of the eyes.

Pupa is the wind that flows.

Pupa is the voice that is calling. Always.

Pupa is the one that returns.

Pupa is the last smile.

Pupa is the glowing butterfly in the night sky.

Pupa is the sound of a silent farewell.