Chapter 48: Grandpa’s Second Diary

The rice is cooked, but the fridge is barren—no side dishes in sight.

Cola’s gaze lands on the condiments by the stove. She mutters, “Can’t just eat soy sauce rice… but it’s too hot to go out…”

Stubborn, she checks the freezer, digging out two cola cans frozen solid. “Damn, when did these freeze? Forgot about ’em… Cola-soaked rice? Nah, that’s too yandere… With my white hair and red eyes, I’m already giving yandere vibes…”

After rummaging through the fridge, she opens the crisper drawer, hoping it magically restocked.
“When’d I buy these bananas? They’re black… Wait, what’s this foam box?” She picks up a small, plain container with a packet of soy sauce and wasabi on top.

Sniffing it, she draws a blank—no memory of buying it. She pops the lid.
“What the… natto? Did Prez buy this last time she was here? It’s been days… Still good?” She checks the expiration date. “Should be fine. It’s fermented anyway…”

Natto—heard of it before coming to Japan, but in her year here, she’s never tried it.
In Tokyo, she ate out. Why bother with natto when you could have katsu, shrimp tempura ramen, or conveyor-belt sushi?
This is her first go at it.

“No clue if it’s good… Gotta mix in the sauce and wasabi, right?” She grabs chopsticks, stirring. Her face twists. “Eugh—slimy, stringy, gross…”

But it’s open and mixed—she has to try it.
She takes a small bite, sticky threads clinging to her cheeks.
“Urk…” It reminds her of her first candied sweet potato, sugar strings all over her face—but that was way tastier.

Swallowing, her frown eases.
Not delicious, but not awful. With wasabi, it’s decent for rice. For someone too lazy to shop, it’ll do.
“Guess I’ll eat it… Is natto cheap? If it’s not, maybe natto rice every day…” She spoons it over the rice, heading to the air-conditioned bedroom, sitting cross-legged at the low table.

Living in Japan, she’s gotten used to no chairs.
But kneeling’s a no-go, and cross-legged makes her legs ache fast.
“Ugh… comfier way to sit?” She adjusts, tucking her calves and feet under her thighs, butt flat on the floor. “Oh, this is solid… Wait, this is the duck sit! Too girly… But it’s comfy, and no one’s watching, so whatever…”

Muttering, she pulls the table closer, then remembers something. Leaning over, she grabs a diary from the TV cabinet drawer.
It’s the second diary from the Silver Girls, her grandpa’s.

Written in kana, the handwriting’s a mess—worse than chicken scratch. Reading it, Cola questions if she ever learned Japanese.
So far, she’s only skimmed the first two pages—boring daily ramblings, no urge to keep going. She only pulls it out when eating, bored out of her mind.

“Why write English in kana? Just use English!” She shovels rice, reaching for a cola, then remembers it’s frozen. Sighing, she continues where she left off.

This second entry is six months after the first.
Makes sense—no one writes daily. Grandpa probably bought the diary on a whim, wrote once, forgot it in a drawer, and only remembered when something worth noting came up.

“What a joker. Kuya saw me today and asked how I’m still alive. Turns out, he dreamt I died in front of him. Early morning, still half-asleep, mixing up dreams and reality.” Cola reads slowly, word by word. Kana’s all phonetic, so understanding a word often means reading the whole sentence, thanks to Japanese homophones.

“Goddamn, old man’s writing starts neat, then turns to scribbles. Write properly, jeez! This diary wasn’t meant for anyone else…” She grumbles, then pauses. Makes sense—diaries are personal.
Still, she wonders if Grandpa could even read his own messy handwriting.

Eating, she’s not in the mood to decode it. That’d need a blank notebook to jot down translations, then re-organize to make sense.
So she flips forward, skimming the neat opening lines of each entry.

“By all rights, vampires I sired should only crave cola, but I caught Kuya secretly drinking blood. He said he just wanted to try it… What’s with him lately? He’s changed since a few years ago.”

The rest is illegible. She flips two more pages.

“My control over them is weakening. Besides Kuya, three others show the same signs. Kuya says he’ll resurrect me, but I’m perfectly alive. What’s wrong with him?”

Cola frowns, forgetting to chew.
Grandpa’s diary has real secrets.
Sired vampires acting out of character?
Some kind of atavism, craving blood again?
And mistaking dreams for reality?

She flips eagerly, but the scrawl gives her a headache.
Skipping several pages, she finds a neater section.

“Dreams extend reality; reality ends dreams…”

“Did the old man watch Evangelion?” Cola snarks, trying to lighten her mood.

But two pages later, her eyes lock on a line in Chinese, chilling her.
“Do I exist?”

“What the… Why’s the old man writing creepy stuff?” She shrinks back, desperate for answers. Flipping to the last page, the writing’s suddenly neat again, all kana but readable with effort.

“Using nearly all my blood essence, I made this potion. Only my descendants can drink it to seal those unknown forces. Henceforth, create no new vampires.”

There’s even a signature: Humphrey Clarissa—maybe Grandpa’s real name.

“That’s it?” She flips further, but it’s blank.
She returns to the first page, chin in hand, pondering the secrets.

Then, her peripheral vision catches English on the inner cover, so elegant she missed it before.
Her English isn’t great, but it’s 2025—she snaps a photo with her phone, and the translation app spits it out:
“Use this power to live a normal, fulfilling life. Bless you, my vampire descendant.”

A simple line.
Alone, it’s nothing deep. But with the diary’s context, there’s a hidden warning:
Using this power beyond mortal limits, touching mysterious forces, could lead to terrifying consequences.
A caution.

“Raising the dead… does that count as beyond mortal limits?” Cola smacks her lips, tossing the diary aside. “Tch, whatever, I did it once. Not scared. I just want a normal life. Maybe Mom’s research will turn me back into a guy soon.”

She says that, but her mind lingers on what Grandpa faced.
His death wasn’t accidental—it was planned.

“What, did he try replacing his blood with cola and croak?” She laughs at her own absurd thought. “No way… That’d be the funniest vampire death ever.”

But Grandpa doesn’t seem reliable. Turning vampires into cola-craving weirdos was his doing, after all…

“Let’s focus on the band.” She glances at the bass by the door, a smile creeping up. “No work tonight—practice more…”