He wasn't sure what it was that woke him up. Perhaps it was a brief glimmer of pale light that flickered through the corners of his vision, even in sleep. Perhaps it was the soft whisper of winds that rustled the papers on the desk. He distinctly recalled closing the window, but perhaps that too was a dream.
More asleep than awake himself, he walked into the minuscule living room and turned on the overhead light. Its vicious illumination assaulted his senses, blinding him for a few seconds. Once his eyes adjusted, he realized that something was wrong. The drawer he'd locked was now ajar and its contents pulled out, each envelope opened and each letter unfolded. All of the letters were stacked neatly on the desktop, the envelopes rendered oversized confetti, scattered haphazard across the carpet.
Appalled and a little unnerved by the invasion of his privacy, he fought the urge to immediately hide, or to call the police. Yet except for the letters and the window, nothing appeared to be disturbed. It made no sense; why would anyone break into his rooms, open the letters and leave valuable antiquities untouched? He licked his lips nervously, looking around, checking to be sure the door was still locked and chained from the inside - it was - and that no one was still there. Once he was certain he was alone, he collected the maligned letters and started to slide them back into their folder.
Only another envelope was inside the manila file, addressed to him in a feminine hand so familiar he ached at the memory. It was a letter from his mother, probably tucked away all these years in the recesses of the filing cabinet. It had housed years worth of her records: receipts, photographs, the crude artwork of boys' kindergarten days, the carefully pressed rose that his father had given her when he proposed, a christening gown, one of his father's pipes, the worn leather journal both parents inscribed during their final journey together...
It was the only claim Nigel had made to the family holdings because it was the center of his childhood. Mum's cabinet was the repository of treasures for a child... And, later, it remained a treasure chest for a young man who cherished every faded slip of paper and every bit of tattered lace.
His fingers hovered over the brittle paper, hesitating to breech the brown wax seal. How like Emma Bailey, to use such archaic means to close a simple letter! He even smelled the faint, lingering scent of the rose attar clinging to the ivory envelope.
He would never be sure why, but instead of opening the letter then and there, he tucked it into his backpack and forgot it for several days after.
Go to Part Three