Noah stared at the letter for a long moment after finishing, his jaw tightening.
“I grew up hearing about harvests and expansion plans,” he said. “Not… this.”
“It’s beautiful,” I said finally, the words coming out a little breathless.
He gave a low chuckle. “It’s... definitely something.”
“She really loved him,” I said, certain. “You can feel it.”
He glanced up, meeting my eyes. “And he her.”
Something in his tone made my pulse quicken.
For a heartbeat, I forgot about the chill, the faint tang of dust and oak, the drip of condensation echoing somewhere in the shadows.
The cellar felt smaller suddenly, as though the walls had drawn closer to listen. His voice still lingered there, wrapping itself around the words of that letter, and somehow, they didn’t belong only to the past anymore.
I looked up at him, meaning to say something clever, something to break the spell, but the words tangled somewhere on the way out.
His eyes caught the light from the torch, green, brown, and gold all at once, and in that moment, it felt indecent to look straight at him, like I was seeing something private he hadn’t meant to show.
Heat crept up my neck, soft and traitorous.
It was probably a good thing the cellar was dark because I had absolutely no idea what my face was doing.
I broke the silence first. “So… who on earth was writing to him?”
Noah exhaled, still staring at the letter in his hands. “I have no idea.” He folded it carefully, like the paper might tear if he moved too quickly. “But whoever she was, she clearly mattered.”
I glanced back at the date.July, 1963. The ink had faded at the edges, but not enough to dull the feeling behind it.
Noah stared back down at the letter. “Could’ve been anyone, I suppose. Staff, local girl, farmer’s daughter.”
“Look at that handwriting,” I said. “Nobody wrote like that unless they were educated by a nun or a governess.”
That earned a small laugh, the sound contrasting against the cold cellar air. “Still doesn’t explain why he hid them down here,” he said, folding the paper again.
“Maybe because he couldn’t throw it away,” I said. “Some things you can’t destroy.”
He thought about that for a beat, the paper still in his hand. “This letter must be from the woman in that photograph, wearing the brooch, right?”
The question hung between us. I pictured the photograph again, the woman’s half-smile, the glint of the brooch at her collar, the year pencilled faintly on the back,1963.
“It fits,” I said slowly. “The timing, the way he looks at her in that photo. It’s not just a friendship.”
He met my eyes, and there was something in his expression, something thoughtful and distant, but also strangely gentle.
“You won’t tell anyone, will you?”
I shook my head. “Not a word. It’s your family’s secret, not mine.”
He gave a short, grateful nod and began to retie the bundle, the ribbon slipping loose and catching on his thumb. “Maybe we should take the rest upstairs to read them. It’s getting colder down here.”
I watched, half-expecting the linen to fall apart, but it held.
A voice echoed faintly down the stairs. Izzy’s, sharp and impatient. “Noah? Are you down there?”
The spell broke. Noah’s expression tensed briefly before he carefully folded the letters and slipped them into the inside pocket of his jacket. He slid the loose stone back into place, the noise of it settling into the wall sounded strangely final.
