Chapter 1368: Story 1368: Her Diary Was a Map

I found it under a corpse.

A young woman, face unrecognizable, slumped against a school locker.

One arm outstretched.

The other clutching a leather-bound diary so tightly, I had to snap her fingers to get it loose.

The cover was scratched, but the words still shimmered faintly:

“If you find this, follow my heart.”

I didn’t mean to read it.

I just wanted something to burn, maybe something to remind me what human words looked like.

But when I opened it, the first page stopped me cold.

“His name was Eli. He still matters. If he’s out there—don’t let him become one of them.”

I read the whole thing by firelight, huddled beneath the ruins of a high school bleacher, with the infected moaning two fences away.

She wasn’t just writing stories.

She was leaving coordinates.

Hints.

Drawings of alleys and cryptic codes—X marks, skull symbols, red arrows labeled SAFE or NOISE = DEATH.

She had mapped a path from the center of the outbreak all the way to the outskirts of Zone Delta, where the rumor of sanctuary still flickered like an old myth.

But it wasn’t just survival notes.

There were love letters too.

Fragments of longing.

Dark jokes to no one and someone all at once.

“Eli liked cherry soda. I haven’t tasted sugar in a month.”

“We kissed under the neon sign before it burned. I hope he remembers.”

“If you see this and you’re not him… save yourself. If you are him, run. I think I’m next.”

That line was written in shaky ink.

The words below it were scratched out—deep enough to tear through the page.

I should’ve stopped.

But the next page had a bloodstain shaped like a heart.

And below it:

“The graveyard past the diner holds the truth. It’s where we buried our hope. Maybe it’s still breathing.”

That was yesterday.

Today, I stand outside the diner she drew—“Mel’s Burgers.”

Windows shattered.

Blood dried in footprints leading east.

Graveyard’s just beyond the hill.

Fog’s thick.

Sky’s red.

I clutch the diary like it’s gospel.

Because somehow, this stranger’s words feel more real than my own heartbeat.

She died before reaching him.

Or maybe she was looking for something else—peace, closure, death on her own terms.

But her map… it still pulses with intent.

So I follow.

Not just because I want to know what’s at the end,

but because part of me needs to believe someone once loved so hard they charted a path through hell to say:

“I still believe in us.”