As soon as the last guest departed and the house settled into an uneasy quiet, I found myself standing alone in the dimly lit study. Richard’s desk loomed in the corner, an imposing silhouette against the wall of bookshelves. The air was thick with the scent of old books and cedar polish, a familiar aroma that tugged at bittersweet memories.
I approached the desk cautiously, the echo of the cryptic messages still reverberating in my mind. Richard had been meticulous about his belongings, always locking his desk and keeping the key on a chain he wore around his neck. After his death, the key had been handed to me, a small token of a life suddenly and inexplicably cut short.
With trembling hands, I unlocked the top drawer. Papers rustled as I sifted through them, each document a reminder of the life Richard and I had built together. There were tax forms, business contracts, and old letters. But nothing out of the ordinary.
