A Letter from the Past

It happened in the evening as I was walking in the garden with my fiancee, Eve. The roses and lavenders were in full bloom. It was sunset, and the sun had bled the sky a fiery red crimson. We stood in awe and watched, holding hands and enjoying the moment together.

We walked back to the grand house, that red brick fortress of tranquility. The land had been in my family since the time of King George the 5th. It wasn't just a home - it was a heritage. The tiles of the old gray slate roof was covered with ancient lichen. The front oak door still bears the marks the scars of a Japanese soldier's rifle butt. Walking inside you'll feel the old dark teak flooring cut from mammoth trees in Borneo and gaze upon that fabulous Turquoise mosaic fresco that grandfather ordered from Jaipur.

And then I saw him, standing by the stained glass windows of the attic. The teal colored glass almost hid him. But there he stood. Arms akimbo - as imposing as Raffles' statue. Surprisingly, Eve saw him too. "Who is that? She whispered. I didn't know we were having guests."

"That's not a guest. Eve. ... That's my father."

"But I thought he was dead."

"Yes, he is. 10 years ago."

"Then...????" And Eve's eyes widen in disbelief.

"Yes. Then." I replied. I'm not sure why. But I didn't seem surprised. Oh, he's back.

I quicken my pace and walked straight up to the attic. Eve, with a great deal of vocal trepidation, followed behind. She didn't want to go. I told her to stay downstairs - but she didn't want to be alone. I told her to make up her mind rather rudely. She was about to launch into a lover's tantrum but swallowed her wounded feelings as I started up the stairs. She gripped my hand like a child.

"I guess you don't want to be alone." I teased her.

"Shutup." She said. And I did.

The wooden staircase leading to the attic creaked and groaned like a grumbly old Cantonese amah woken up too early to do a morning chore. Dust from eons of neglect rose up to greet us. Here and there a frightful spider scampered.

I pushed aside the old European oil paintings (kept there because they disturbed my Grandfather's 1st wife) - brushed away the cobwebs. Light from the dying sun gently glimmered against the stained glass windows where my father stood. But he was not there.

An unfathomable spasm of fear gripped me all of a sudden. Did it just get so cold??? It smothered my desire to call out to my father. What would happen if he actually appeared? Would he look like Obi-wan Kenobi and talk to me about some crazy secret like... "There is another Skywalker." Nutty thoughts were making a New York style traffic jam in my brain.

I walked deliberately and slowly to the window. And stood in the same place my father's ghost has stood. How bizarre. I looked out. My God what a view. You could see the whole garden from here. The sun gleamed molten gold as it disappeared behind the horizon. Now why? Why here?

Eve was the first to notice it. "Oh Look. A pretty wooden box", she said. Her love for beautiful objects had overcame her misgivings at following me up this dark loft.

It was under the window, by the wall. It was very very old. And it was sitting there. Waiting. For me.

To be continued...
(This is a fictional story)