He Writes

Writing in a diary was a habit — not just a routine, but a kind of ritual. Every evening, before bed, he would open a leather-bound notebook, pull out a pen, and write:

"Tomorrow. Morning. Breakfast at seven. Work. Meeting at noon. In the evening, buy milk. Before bed, read a few pages."

Simple, clear bullet points. Day after day. Discipline helped.

But that evening, when he sat down at the desk, the diary was already open. On the page, written in neat handwriting, it said:

"Tomorrow. Breakfast at seven. The meeting will be delayed. Don’t forget the milk in the evening."

His hand froze above the page. He was certain he hadn’t written that.

At first, he thought it was a prank. Maybe someone had broken in? Or worse — maybe he had written it and forgotten?

But the next day, the meeting really was delayed.

That evening, he sat at the desk again, this time just watching. Waiting.

Ink began to appear on the paper, as if guided by an invisible hand.
"Tomorrow. Better leave for work early. Before lunch, stay to the right side of the sidewalk."

He rushed outside, looking around nervously. Was someone watching him? But no — there was no one.

---

Does it hear? Can it speak?

A few days passed. The diary continued to write on its own. He decided to test it, dared to ask out loud:

— Who are you?

Ink flowed onto the page.
"Diary."

— You hear me?

"Yes."

— How do you do this?

Silence.

— Fine... What should I do tomorrow?

"Plans have already been made."

He couldn’t understand. The diary wasn’t just recording his thoughts — it knew more than he did.

So he decided to ask a question silently. He focused his thoughts but said nothing aloud.

"Yes." — appeared on the page.

He shuddered. He hadn’t said a word, yet the diary responded.

From that day on, he stopped speaking to the diary aloud. He thought, and it answered.

But the more he asked, the less the diary wrote.

"Plans have been made."
"You know the answer."

---

When the words stopped

And then came something he didn’t expect.

He thought about the next day. How to behave in a meeting? What to say? What choice to make?

Nothing.

Then he spoke aloud.

Silence.

Then he wrote the question directly on the page.

The diary didn’t respond.
The ink just sat there alone.

Panic set in. The diary had always known, had always replied. And now — nothing.

He tried again. With thoughts. With voice. With writing.

Still nothing.

Then he understood: the diary would not decide for him.

It could help plan, but it didn’t determine fate. It could guide, but not choose the path.

He had thought the diary knew the future. But now he saw — it knew him.

The diary never offered answers because the answers had to be his own.

---

The Final Question

The next evening, he opened the diary again.

He didn’t write. Just stared.

Slowly, ink formed on the page.

"You know what to do."

But what troubled him most...

He hadn’t asked a question.