It wasn’t in the attic of her old house, or buried in the garden, or hidden behind a loose brick in the fireplace. It was in a drawer of her writing desk—a desk I’ve opened a hundred times. But today, I pulled the drawer out all the way. Tapped the bottom panel. It slid aside.
I found it today. Not the key itself—that came years ago—but the door. emily's diary - chapter 1
— Emily