He returned to the seam, carefully working away another line of crumbling mortar until a clean edge of brick emerged.
Then Noah eased the block loose. It came away with a sound that was half sigh, half crumble, sending a puff of dust swirling through the torchlight before settling across his sleeve. He setthe block carefully beside him and reached into the narrow hollow.
I sucked in a breath as he pulled something out.
It was a bundle wrapped in linen so old it had yellowed to the colour of weak tea. A ribbon, once red but now faded, held it closed.
He placed it on the nearest crate, and for a moment neither of us said anything.
Noah brushed a thumb across the fabric. “Feels like envelopes inside,” he murmured.
“Like letters?” I asked. “That’s so romantic!”
His mouth curved faintly, but the humour didn’t reach his eyes. He untied the ribbon with a care that made my chest tighten. Inside were three or four envelopes, stacked neatly together. The top one was sealed only by age and dust, the flap curled slightly open.
Noah lifted it, turning it so the light fell across the front. The handwriting was beautiful, slanted, graceful, the kind people used to learn in boarding schools.
Across the top was written:
July, 1963.
To Edward.
He went still, as if the name had frozen him mid-thought. “Edward,” he repeated. “My grandfather.”
I leaned closer. “He’d have been young then, wouldn’t he? Early twenties?”
“Twenty-one, maybe,” he said, without taking his eyes off the letter. “Around the time he left for Europe.”
I waited, unsure whether to speak or not, until curiosity won.
“So, before he met your grandmother?”
He nodded once, a small movement. “Before her.”
He hesitated, then turned to me. “Do you want to…?”
“Yes,” I said, far too quickly. “Absolutely.”
A small smile flickered, then he slipped a finger under the flap and eased it open.
The paper crackled faintly, delicate as wings. He unfolded it carefully and held the torchlight to it, the ink faded to a beige brown but still legible.
When he began to read, his voice was almost reverent.
"My dearest Edward,
Not an hour passes that I do not think of you. The world feels dimmer without your laughter in it. I close my eyes and can still see your hands, the way they steadied mine as though I were something precious instead of foolish.
I wear your brooch and imagine you are near, it catches the light, and I swear, for a moment, it feels like your gaze.
If I could bottle the peace I feel when you look at me, I would keep it with me always.
Until we meet again, I will hold you here, in every thought, every breath, every quiet corner of my heart.
Yours, always and only, T."
The sound of his voice filled the space between us. It was the kind of letter that made the world slow down, the kind that left no doubt what it meant. There was no pretence, no guarded phrasing, just love written plainly, as though the writer trusted the page to keep their secret.
