“Yeah, fine. I—” And I stop. Because there’s something in the corner of the room that shouldn’t be there. Something I haven’t seen before. A small suitcase, thick with dust. “What’s that?”
He follows my gaze. “I found it up there. Thought you might be interested.”
“You found it in our attic?”
“Mmm.” He clomps downstairs, shedding cobwebs and dust with every step.
He picks the suitcase up and carries it into the kitchen, setting it down on the table with a dusty thump. It sits there, its clasp rusted and its leather cracked.
My stomach turns over on itself.
Faint against the dirt-aged leather, there are two initials embossed on the front of the case.
AH
Albert Holmwood. Can it be? Is that too much of a coincidence? Or is it a sign – a sign that he, that the house, is still calling?
“It was in our attic?”
The front door slams, followed by two hollow-sounding clonks as Felix kicks off his boots.
“Hello? Anyone in?”
“In the kitchen!” Charlie reaches into the fridge for a beer, knocking the cap off and slamming the door. He takes a swig, then holds it out for Felix, who strolls in and takes it gratefully.
“Cheers. What’s this then?” he asks, pointing at the case.
“We don’t know,” Charlie tells him, his voice hushed.
Albie’s suitcase…Not in the big-house attic. In ours.
Their initials. Their place. His case.
It can’t be.
It’s too much to hope for.
My heart hammers on the inside of my ribs like it’s trying to crack them open, break the bars, smash its way free as I try the latches on the case.
They stick at first, and for a horrible moment I’m sure the case is locked…but then they snap open, and all three of us breathe out again.
“Well?” It’s Felix who asks first, before I’ve barely even got the lid open.
“Hang on, would you?” I stop and glare at him. Charlie laughs and puts an arm around Felix’s shoulders, ruffling his hair in the process.
The lid of the case catches, the hinges protesting loudly as I lift it. At one point, there’s a horrible cracking noise and I freeze.
“There’s no point just stopping now, is there?” says Charlie. “Do you want me to do it?”
“No!” It’s louder than I meant it to be. More protective, my hands instinctively splaying across Albie’s initials.
“Okay then. Just…open the case.”
I swing the lid all the way open, resting it back on the table, and the three of us peer in.
“More papers. Of course.”
There’s something different about these ones – as though instead of being piled into the crates and chests simply to get them out of the way, these were placed here on purpose. Deliberately, carefully.
I take out the first pile, tied together with dusty brown string.
“And? Is it to do with Ha— Uh, his project?” Charlie corrects himself. And then, unable to wait, he grabs the first papers, flipping the top sheets forward and peering at the ones behind.
“Charlie!” I reach for them, but he twists away, back towards Felix.
“Hang on a minute, I’m looking!” He studies them, his eyes skipping along the lines of typewritten text on each page, nodding and chewing on his bottom lip as he goes. “Mmm. Mmm-hmm. Oh…”
“What? What does ‘oh’ mean? What?”
He glances up at me and half-grins, slipping one sheet out from the middle of the bundle.
“Here. This one. You’ll want to read this.”
…Can confirm that we have released to our client the documents held for him in the event of his return…
“Who’s the client?”
“You tell me.” Charlie nods at the paper, and I skip forward a couple of lines.
…No wish to contest or delay the sale of Holmwood House. As the sole remaining member of the family, all funds are to be…
In the event of his return.
My hands are shaking so hard that I almost tear the paper as I turn it over to look for a date.
October 1919.
It can’t be.
It has to be.
I look up at Charlie. He sighs.
“All right, all right. Let’s get it out on the table.”
I sit on the floor with my back against the sofa, my phone lying in front of me.
Like I have been for the last hour.
“You know they only work if you actually touch them, don’t you?”
“Thanks, Charlie. I’ll remember that.”
“Make the call. The longer you sit here…”
“Just…give me a minute! Please?” I snap at him.
“Fine, fine. Have it your way,” he mutters, holding up his hands and wandering off back into the kitchen.
I stare at my phone some more.
What if I call and he can’t answer?
What if I call and he doesn’t?
What if I call and he doesn’t care?
What if I call and he doesn’t even remember who I am?
Worse, what if I call and he doesn’t want to remember? What if he looks at his phone and sees my name and thinks to himself, it’s the crazy girl, and – like other people – he flicks me away and out into the darkness.
What if…what if…
What if I’m holding the last piece of the puzzle; the piece we never even knew was missing?
What if I run towards, instead of away?
I pick up my phone and dial.
The number rings twice, then goes to voicemail. Instantly, I hang up.
Okay. Let’s try that again.
I hit redial.
Ring-ring…voicemail.
Redial.
Ring-ring…voicemail.
This time, I listen to the greeting. It sounds strange – like him, but not him, as though I’m listening to someone doing an impersonation of him. Like he’s doing an impersonation of himself. And then there’s a beep and I realize I’m now basically leaving a heavy-breathing message on his voicemail and that’s not good – so I blurt out the first thing that comes into my head.
“Hal, it’s me. Flora. From the hotel. Hopwood Home. Obviously. Listen, there’s a case. A suitcase. And stuff. And it’s him, it’s really him, and you’re not here, and I need to tell you…Call me back, okay? Call me. It’s Flora. Obviously. Hi. Call me.”
I hang up again to find both Charlie and Felix staring at me over their shared bottle of beer.
“What?”
“And he can actually understand all that, can he?” says Charlie pointedly.
I give him what I hope is the sort of look that can turn a man to stone.
And then my phone rings – too fast for him to have even listened to my message.
“Flora?” The voice on the other end makes me ache for him. “You called.”
This isn’t voicemail Hal. It’s real Hal. My Hal. And hearing him again, so near and far away, rips open the door I’ve tried to close, and I don’t care.
“We were wrong.”
“What? Sorry, I don’t—”
“We were wrong! We never knew how the story ended. We only thought we did.”