8 December 2027
Wednesday. The year ends, and by custom I write the Professor a letter. I never send it. He never replies. It is the most successful relationship I have.
Professor. Another year of your notebook in my guests’ hands, and of my graveyard in Perth and your catacombs in Melbourne pretending not to notice one another. You hand out relics. I hand out lantern light. They argue on both sides of the country and call it a night out.
I note that you write in your diary about once a month, and that I do the same, so that between us the readers are never left long without news. I note also that you are a ghost and I am undead, and that neither of us has any business keeping a diary at all. Yet here we are.
Until the next moon, Professor. Wear a warmer coat. Melbourne is cold, and you, I gather, are permanently so.
— D.
