Log 10 — Tenth Entry: The Trail and the Missing Frame

A missing photo. A message in her own hand. A moon. A question. 
The trail calls, but the sky might be the first step.

Left Page

"Hoje apareceu outra.
Uma nova mensagem. Não fiz nada de diferente. Não esperava. Estava a testar um enquadramento. 
A foto parecia igual às outras.
Mas quando saiu… lá estava uma frase.
“Segue o trilho.”
A letra é minha. Outra vez."
Another one appeared today.
A new message. I didn’t do anything differently. I wasn’t expecting it. I was just testing a frame. The photo looked like all the others.
But when it developed... there was a phrase.
“Follow the trail.”
The handwriting is mine. Again.

There’s a strange resignation in her tone now. Like she’s no longer surprised by the impossible, only by the details. The way the words appear. The fact that the handwriting keeps mimicking hers. Or maybe it is hers. Maybe she’s the one writing these messages without knowing it.

“Segue o trilho.”
Follow the trail.

It’s not a suggestion. It’s a command. Short. Certain. Like it knows where it’s going, even if she doesn’t.

And the most unsettling part?
I don’t have this photo. It wasn’t among her belongings. It’s one of the few missing pieces. No way to know what it showed or what followed after.

Right Page 

"Não me lembro de escrever.
Mas desta vez… Não questionei.
Senti que era para mim.
E então lembrei-me da primeira:
“Procura as alturas.”
A frase que me ficou na cabeça. A que tentei ignorar.
Talvez nunca tenha sido sobre a floresta. Talvez ainda não comecei o trilho."
I don’t remember writing it.
But this time… I didn’t question it.
I felt like it was meant for me.
And then I remembered the first one:
“Seek the heights.”
The phrase that stayed in my head. The one I tried to ignore.
Maybe it was never about the forest. Maybe I haven’t even started the trail yet.

“Procura as alturas.”
"Seek the heights."

Now paired with “Follow the trail,” it feels like a contradiction. Or maybe a sequence. First, look up. Then, move forward. One message vertical, the other horizontal, both pointing toward something beyond the map.

The trail. The forest. The heights.
These aren’t places. Not really.
They’re thresholds.

And she’s only just crossed the first one.

She doesn’t remember writing the message. But she doesn’t fight it either. That’s what haunts me. The quiet acceptance. The shift from fear to belief, even if she’s not ready to say it aloud.

At the bottom of the page, two small drawings: a crescent moon and a question mark. Pencil-soft, almost hesitant. A symbol of change, and a symbol of doubt. As if even her uncertainty is becoming part of the ritual. Part of the trail.

Maybe the handwriting is hers because it was always meant to be.

Maybe the trail begins when you stop asking why.

These pages are fragments left behind by Isabel S., no more and no less. © I.S.