"Alright, kids! Last customer's gone, get to work and clean up."

Dipper resignedly picked up a broom and started sweeping. It felt like he hadn't had any excitement, any new threads to mysteries, for ages now. He could understand why Wendy made no move to leave her seat by counter―with dust slowly drifting across the now dimming sunbeams, and the only sound coming from people milling around the Shack, it felt too peaceful to do much. Or too dull.

"Hey, Wendy! Check out this new invention I made! They're like a normal pair of glasses, but they have disco ball material on them so it's like a party wherever you go!"

Of course, Dipper could always count on Mabel to ignore all sense of idyllic quietness. He was grateful for that today.

"Wow, this is really awesome. Like, I can't see a thing, but I'm happy about it. Nice job, Mabel."

He looked up to see Wendy wearing the ridiculous-looking glasses and rolled his eyes, managing to stop himself from snorting in amusement. He moved away from the girls as he swept around the edges of some of the attractions, listening to Mabel kick her invention up a notch by turning on a bunch of coloured lights.

When Wendy made a sharp sound of surprise, the lights touching the walls and gift shop items abruptly disappeared, and Mabel bashfully said, "We'll work out the kinks before I move onto the next prototype."

Dipper was paying enough attention to them that he didn't immediately realise why there was something in the way of his broom, and he absent-mindedly tried to sweep it away as he looked back to Wendy rubbing her eyes and then giving a hair-ruffle of forgiveness to Mabel. When it barely budged, he turned back to what he was doing and started slightly as he saw a notebook that didn't look like it belonged to anyone working at the Mystery Shack. He picked it up and furrowed his brow―it must have been left by a visitor. "Hey, Mabel?"

Mabel immediately flung her arms onto his shoulders, making him jump, as she leaned over him to look at his discovery. "Oh, cool! Someone left us free stuff!"

"I don't think―"

"Grunkle Stan always says we can take stuff the 'Lost and Found' box if no one comes for it, so I'm calling dibs on this for developing my Disco Glasses. Then you can wear them while you're singing along to BABBA," she said teasingly, pinching his cheek. He batted her away from him and kept the notebook out of her reach.

"I'm sure someone will come and get it. We just have to be...patient," he said, taking in the stillness of the Mystery Shack again. "I mean, maybe we should... Well―maybe they've written their name inside it, so we could find out who in Gravity Falls this belongs to and return it to them."

"Maybe it belongs to a cute boy!"

"Or an old lady."

"That would be good, too."

Dipper rolled his eyes again and opened the notebook. The first thing his eyes were drawn to was the huge blocks of text filling the page, and then―nope, no name written that he could see. He flicked through the rest of the book, and found that about half of the pages had been written in, and the other half was blank, for now. No name on the back, either.

"Okay, that didn't work out. We'll just have to wait for the owner to come back, then."

"Gotta admit, I'm glad you're not leaving on some quest to find this guy with just me and Soos to clear up..." Wendy said, not having moved from her position.

"Oh, um, yeah. Right. Sorry." He placed the book down on the counter and swept.

"Don't sweat it, man, just keep doin' what you're doin'." She settled down more comfortably and picked up a magazine.

Dipper shook his head and got on with it. Mabel went to fetch Waddles, who she claimed was vitally important in her task to refill the vending machine, and he could hear Soos coming in from outside where he'd been doing some reparations to the house.

The notebook nagged at him as he did his work―what was written inside there? What kind of person did it belong to? It felt like he was finding the journal all over again; there was an insatiable curiosity in him to uncover its secrets.

But he realised that would be disrespectful. He might read something that they would never tell anyone. Or something that scars him for life. Or maybe it was just a bunch of recipes or something―he was sure some of the pages looked like they could have an ingredients list on them, all short lines one after the other. That would be completely uninteresting. No need to think about it any more. But there were so many possibilities!

Ugh. The wait for its owner would be a long one.

Time passed, as it was wont to do, no matter how frustrated a boy got about a notebook. The orange sky was washed out with a deep blue palette and the owls started piling up on the driveway as they hooted into the night. Dipper, Mabel and Grunkle Stan watched TV until it was late enough to justify going to bed: an end to another day.

Dipper stared up at the ceiling. Maybe if he just read one page―or even just a few words―he'd see that whatever's in that notebook wasn't at all exciting and he could leave it alone. That wouldn't hurt anybody, right? Or, or he'd see that it was really personal and he wouldn't care about what they were saying in it because it was just some random person he didn't know. Surely that would be better than lying there and not getting any sleep.

Dipper rolled onto his side. After enough nights spent together in the same room, he could tell that the Mabel-shaped lump snuggled up under the sheets was definitely fast asleep. The alarm clock: 11pm. Late enough for him to be concerned over lost sleep―at least, it seemed late enough as a justification for getting the notebook. It was too perfect an opportunity to pass up.

He encountered no problems on his journey, clutching the notebook close to him like it was a baby he was trying to protect.

Flashlight from the bedside desk in hand, sheets covering him to keep his disturbance to Mabel a minimum, he begun to read.

To be so fragmented is a difficult existence. They believe they are crafting me into a chef-d'oeuvre, beautifully planned, beautifully executed. Do they know not what the dangers are of addling prose with the influences of so many? Am I the centrepiece, an addendum, a footnote? Have they deigned such a consideration worthy of a decision, or are they too preoccupied with an altogether more simple novel, for which no such consideration is necessary?

Wait―what? Dipper had conjured up a multitude of different possibilities for the notebook, but nothing like this. It felt like something out of the 1800s, and it was...well, Dipper could barely think of how to describe it. It was nothing like what he'd read before, anyway. He couldn't tell if he thought it was enchanting or pretentious. But there was one thing he was sure about―it was intriguing. And Dipper realised he was very, very misguided to ever think he could read a little bit of it and then stop.

The tone of the writing carried on similarly for a few more paragraphs, the writer going on to compare themselves to a kit who was pushed out of the family for a runt. But then, it changed.

I don't know. Philip's saying I should do this, I should do that, even more than he usually does, and it makes me miss when it was just me and Mom. And with going to see Dad again for the first time since Christmas, it's as if I need to pull myself in all these conflicting directions in order to keep this conglomerate of people in my life vaguely recognisable as a family. Greg's no help towards that at all. He's as much Philip's son as he is my brother; neither of them have the authority to shape how my life should be. They just get in the way.

At least Dipper understood what on earth they'd been writing about in the last few paragraphs. Mostly. It was hard to read about these innermost thoughts being written so plainly―whenever he got annoyed at Mabel for 'getting in the way' of what he wanted, like when she won Waddles at the fair, he ultimately understood she was worth putting over himself before any sort of negative thoughts could be put down on paper. This just felt...harsh.

As he read on, he found out that the author wrote about more than just their family. Poems―which he'd mistaken as ingredients lists when he was glancing over them, of all things―dedicated to a girl name Sara started appearing in between the diary-like and literature-like sections. There was always a pervading sense of distance within them; Dipper was reminded of himself and Wendy. In one of the poems, Dipper finally got confirmation that the writer was male: "How could she want a boy like me?" Mabel would be pleased. Although, he didn't described himself all that much―Dipper had no idea what he looked like.

Dipper did learn of other snippets of this person's life, though: he played the clarinet and didn't want to join the marching band; his brother, Greg, seemed a lot like Mabel, always being non-sensical and cheerful; and he was awkward around people, making social blunders and being unable to tell Sara how he felt. Dipper almost started to worry that this was actually one of his clones living their own life.

About one-third of the way in, the writing became...different. Not like the difference between a diary entry and a poem; it seemed like it was the start of another notebook, maybe even another author, but the handwriting was the same. Where once there were very real human experiences, and maybe a few poems about the landscape or historic events, there were now dark, mysterious creatures and people filling the pages. Pumpkin-headed villagers were waiting for the author to die, a woman was possessed by a murderous spirit, and above all, 'the Beast' was tempting the writer into the darkness with deals that were hard to refuse. And they couldn't just be metaphorical. There was no indication of anything like those things before this page.

Dipper's mind raced with questions and ideas. Maybe this marked when the writer came to Gravity Falls―though these things didn't match up exactly with the entries of the journal and what Dipper had seen, it wouldn't take much extrapolation to think that a pumpkin-headed person could have been the Summerween Trickster, the woman could have been a witch, the deal-making 'Beast'...another name for Bill Cipher? This would mean there was another person who knew about this town's secrets! And they had to return for this notebook, and then Dipper could find out everything they knew about it! His heart beat hard against his chest, realising that finally, finally, he'd end this dry spell in his quest to uncover all of Gravity Falls' mysteries. He didn't think that the notebook's owner would know everything, but as long as he knew something, Dipper couldn't wait to find out what it was.

It was only then that he really considered what it would be like when they met―he'd been so engrossed in what the notebook was saying, he didn't stop to think what it would be like seeing the person who was actually living through these things, things he only knew about because...he...invaded his privacy and went through his personal belongings... Oh no. This guy would hate him. Maybe he could bring up the town's mysteries without revealing he did that―he could, uh...just...mention gnomes in passing, or something. That was a completely normal thing to do.

Dipper rubbed his eyes, both because of dissatisfaction and tiredness. He hadn't finished the notebook yet, so maybe if he kept reading he'd find out something without having to talk to the owner. Dipper thought he could have made a good friend since they seemed so similar, but if he found out what he did, there was no way he'd ever want to speak with him. The notebook was all he had now.

Turning the page, what he saw surprised him. It was a poem, entitled 'Brother O' Mine'. There had never been a poem dedicated to Greg before.

I saw you as a burden to my needs,

An elephant who trampled through the woods.

But I am not the only one who bleeds

And you mean more than all my worldly goods.

You took responsibility from me

For my mistakes, and I apologise

That from them I would always try to flee

Until you had almost met your demise.

I hope that I will never again stray

From seeing you as the joy of my heart.

For you are brighter than the light of day

And I know, from that view, I'll never part.

You will always be the brother o' mine

Like jute, our fates together I will twine.

Dipper's breath caught. He pulled down the sheets surrounding him and looked at the Mabel-shaped lump again, wishing she was awake so he could tell her he loved her.

Oh gosh, that was horrendously sappy. Eugh. Dipper supposed he should commend the writer for turning him into a mess of affection for his sister. He shook his head and continued reading, the initial distaste for how the writer described his brother melting away completely.

Actually, Dipper found himself...really, really admiring him. He definitelythought of the writing as enchanting rather than pretentious now. Being able to write in such a variety of different styles―epic poems as well as sonnets, conversational as well as intellectual―each with the same level of ability and fluidity, it was...impressive. He wrote about becoming better friends with people, and talking to his step-dad more genuinely, and facing up to his problems more often. He still made mistakes, but Dipper couldn't help but feel fond for how much effort he was putting into changing that.

But...as the writer continued to live out his life, he wrote less and less about darkness and monsters. He seemed to regard them as more of a dream eventually; and even though, from what Dipper could gather, Greg saw those things too, he felt he couldn't rightfully say that such impossibilities, like birds that were once human, could possibly be 'real'. Though, from the sound of it, the writer doubted himself... He missed the bird, Beatrice, after all.

Dipper could set him right, show him the journal, show him that everything really was real. It wasn't like the Society of the Blind Eye found him or anything, he just needed a good dose of support.

The last thing written in it was about looking forward to going to a meet-up with his friends in a few days' time. A rather anti-climactic ending, really.

He looked over at the clock and did a double-take. Was it really already 2 o'clock in the morning? He spent a few moments taking that in before he closed the book. There was nothing else to do now until the writer came back for it―if he came back for it. And Dipper apparently really needed to get to sleep now.