The Note (2)

I frantically flip through the remaining pages of the diary, my heart pounding. But there's nothing - just blank pages staring back at me. The story ends abruptly, leaving me with more questions than answers.

"No, no, no," I mutter, running my hands through my hair. "There has to be more."

I start tearing through the boxes in the room, scattering papers and old photographs across the floor. My movements become more frenzied with each empty container.

"Come on, Dad," I plead to the empty room. "You must have left something else."

After what feels like hours, my hands trembling with exhaustion and frustration, I spot a small, leather-bound notebook tucked away in the corner of an old shoebox. It's different from the diary - smaller, more worn.

I open it with shaking hands, and my breath catches in my throat. This isn't a continuation of the diary. It's something else entirely - a record of my father's interactions with the voice in his head.