The Last Entry

The crisp winter air bit at Nacho's cheeks as he trudged through the snow-covered backyard. The Labarta's country house, usually a haven of warmth and laughter, felt heavy with an unsettling silence. It had been a week since the discovery, a week since the world had tilted on its axis and left Nacho feeling adrift. His parents, usually bustling with activity, were consumed by grief. The news had spread like wildfire through the small town, leaving everyone in a state of shock. A body had been found in the backyard, buried beneath a layer of autumn leaves. The police had come, the yellow tape had been strung, and the whispers had started. Nacho, at eighteen, felt a strange mix of fear and fascination. He knew the backyard like the back of his hand, had spent countless hours playing hide-and-seek amongst the towering oak trees and the sprawling vegetable patch. Now, it felt like a foreign land, a place where secrets lurked beneath the frozen earth. He had been told to stay away, to let the police do their job. But Nacho couldn't help but feel drawn to the spot where the body had been found. He imagined the scene, the cold, lifeless form lying beneath the leaves, the silence broken only by the crunch of snow underfoot. One afternoon, while his parents were engrossed in a hushed conversation, Nacho slipped out the back door. The snow crunched under his boots as he made his way to the spot. It was marked by a small, wooden cross, a stark reminder of the tragedy. He knelt down, his fingers brushing against the cold, damp earth. A shiver ran down his spine. He felt a strange pull, an urge to uncover the truth. He knew it was wrong, that he shouldn't be interfering, but the curiosity gnawed at him. He started digging, his hands numb from the cold. The earth was hard, frozen solid, but he persisted, fueled by a strange mix of morbid fascination and a desire to understand. As he dug deeper, he unearthed a small, leather-bound journal. It was damp and stained with dirt, but the pages were surprisingly intact. He carefully brushed away the dirt and opened it. The journal was filled with cryptic entries, written in a neat, elegant hand. The writer, whoever they were, seemed to be in distress, haunted by something. The entries spoke of betrayal, of secrets, of a desperate need to escape. Nacho read on, his heart pounding in his chest. The entries became more frantic, the writing more erratic. The writer spoke of a plan, a way out, a chance to start anew. He flipped to the last page. It was dated the day before the body was found. The final entry was a single sentence, scrawled in a shaky hand: "They will never find me." Nacho felt a chill run down his spine. He knew he had stumbled upon something significant, something that could change everything. He closed the journal, tucking it into his pocket, and hurried back to the house. He knew he couldn't keep this secret. He had to tell his parents, had to tell the police. But he also knew that the journal held a dangerous truth, a truth that could shatter the fragile peace of their small town. He sat in his room, the journal clutched in his hand, his mind racing. He knew he had to act, but he didn't know where to start. He was just a boy, a witness to a tragedy he didn't understand. As the sun began to set, casting long shadows across the snow-covered landscape, Nacho made a decision. He would find out who the writer was, who the body belonged to, and what secrets lay buried beneath the frozen earth. He would uncover the truth, even if it meant risking everything. He knew it wouldn't be easy. The town was small, secrets were tightly held, and the truth was buried deep. But Nacho was determined. He had a story to tell, a story that had been hidden for too long. And he was going to tell it.