The Logbook

The bunkroom smells of mildew and old iron. The logbook rests on a steel cot, its canvas cover stiff with frost. You crack it open and the spine groans like something waking.

The entries are in Cyrillic, then Russian-accented English, then a careful, deliberate script you almost recognize. Day forty. The radio answers itself. Day fifty-one. The tapping comes from inside the walls now. Dated 1986. Signed by a man who, according to the records you've read, walked out one night and never came back.

You turn to the final page. The handwriting changes. The loops are yours. The pressure of the pen is yours. The last line reads, in ink not yet dry: Mara Solberg was here.