The Green Lettering

The day I started keeping a journal was the day I realized the world had a thin layer of wrongness over it, like a film of oil on water. It began with a book on a table in my aunt’s house, a place I’d visited a hundred times. The book was small, bound in black leather, with green lettering on the cover. I didn’t touch it; I just glanced at it as I walked past. Two minutes later, I came back for a glass of water, and the lettering was silver. I blinked. I checked the lighting. I even picked it up, but the letters stayed silver. I told my aunt about it, but she just shrugged and said maybe I’d imagined it. No one believed me. I started to think maybe I was crazy.

But then other things began to happen. I saw a man on the bus who was unmistakably a old film star, dead for decades. He was wearing a modern coat, but his face was the same, that same sharp jaw and sad eyes. I wanted to point him out to the person next to me, but I knew they’d see just an ordinary man. I didn’t sleep well that night. The next week, I heard my name called from a empty room, a soft but clear voice that sounded like my mother, but she was miles away. I opened the door, and the room was empty. I stood there for a long time, listening to the hum of the refrigerator.

It was the book that stayed with me, though. The green lettering. It had been a title, but I couldn’t remember what it said. I tried to picture it, but it was like trying to read a word underwater. I started to obsess. I went back to my aunt’s house, but the book was gone. She said she’d thrown it away, that it was just some old journal she’d bought at a flea market. I didn’t believe her. I searched the house, but there was no trace of it. I was about to leave when I saw a flash of green under the couch. I reached for it, but it was just a piece of trash.

That night, I woke up at 3 a.m. with a sudden clarity. The book wasn’t a book. It was a message. The green lettering was a date, and the silver was another date. And the book was a stepping stone. I sat up in bed, my heart pounding. I didn’t know what the dates meant, but I knew I had to find the book again. I drove to my aunt’s house, but it was dark. I let myself in with the spare key. The house was silent. I went to the small table where I’d seen the book. It was there, sitting on the table as if it had never been moved. The lettering was green again.

I approached it slowly. It wasn’t a journal, but a diary with entries. The first entry was dated in 1969, and it was written in a bold, spiky handwriting. It described a concert and a sense of overwhelming joy. The second entry was dated 1980, and it was written in the same hand, but the joy was gone. It spoke of a premonition of death. The third entry was dated that day, and the handwriting was mine. It described a book on a table, green lettering, then silver. I slammed the book shut. My hands were shaking.

I carried the book to the kitchen, intending to burn it. But as I held it over the stove, the lettering changed to silver, and I saw a new sentence: ‘You are the one who sees.’ I froze. The book was not a trick. It was a bridge between worlds. The green lettering meant something was about to happen. The silver meant it had happened. I had seen John Lennon because the book had shown me a moment from his timeline. I had heard my name because someone in another world had called out. The book was a door, and I was standing on the threshold.

I opened the book again. The pages were filled with descriptions of events that had not yet happened. Plane crashes, wars, a child’s cry in the night. Some were ordinary, some were horrible. And at the very end was a passage written in silver: ‘You will understand when you see the green light.’ I closed the book and looked out the window. The streetlight flickered, and for a moment, the entire world seemed to be made of thin, fragile paper. I knew I had to destroy the book, but I also knew I couldn’t. It was a part of me now.

I now live with the book hidden in my coat, always with me. I don’t open it unless I have to. But sometimes, when I’m walking down the street, I see a car pass with a driver who looks like someone from another era, or a bird that sings a melody I’ve never heard. And I wonder if the book is showing me what could be, or what is. I no longer tell anyone about it. They’d think I was crazy. But I know the truth: the green lettering is a warning, and the silver is a promise. And one day, I’ll find the green light, and I’ll understand everything.

Until then, I’ll keep the book close, and I’ll never stop looking for that green lettering.