June 21, 1947
Ashford Manor
I left just after dawn. I didn’t tell anyone I was going, who would I tell? I packed water, a notebook, a pen. Wore boots. The map from behind the wallpaper was folded in my coat pocket, though I had memorized its lines by heart overnight. I barely slept.
The orchard was damp with last night’s rain. The trees felt closer together than usual, as if shifting subtly to guard their secrets.
Beyond the farthest apple tree, where the map indicated a faint trail, I found a break in the brambles. The grass there was flattened as though someone had walked it not long ago. I could’ve missed it if I hadn't known what to look for.
The woods beyond weren’t wild exactly. They felt... paused. As if something had once moved here often and hasn’t for a long time.
I followed the path carefully, brushing aside hanging limbs and roots. At one point, I found an old stone boundary marker, half-sunk in moss. Carved into it, barely legible: S.R. The initials struck something inside me, but I don’t yet know what.
And then I saw it.
A small wooden structure. More of a hut than a shed. Covered in ivy and age. Its single window was cracked but intact. The door was ajar, as if someone had left in a hurry and never came back.
I stepped inside.
It smelled of damp paper, old ink, and time. Dust moved in shafts of light like silver threads. There was a desk. A stool. Several shelves. A trunk in the corner, and on the desk—
An envelope.
Unopened. Unfaded.
The ink: a deep violet.
It simply reads: FOR L.
I haven’t opened it yet.
—Calliope.
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