It was a beautiful weekend. I was in the kitchen trying to fix up something for lunch. Then I heard the doorbell ring. I was a bit shocked because I wasn't really expecting any visitors that day, at least none that I was aware of. I couldn't help but wonder who that could be. Initially, I thought about ignoring it, but then I thought maybe I should just check it out.
I made my way to the living room and opened the front door. But I didn't see anyone. I leaned a bit further and looked sideways to see if I could see anyone walking away, he or she couldn't have gone that far. But I still didn't see anyone, except for one of my neighbour's cat at it's usual spot. I even had to step out in front of the porch. But still, I didn't see anyone.
Instead, what I did see was a brown box on the doormat. What was strange about it was that there was no return address or any markings. All I saw was my name typed on a white label.
“That's strange,” I said to myself.
I carried it inside. The weight was a lot heavier than I had expected. I put it on the table and for the next five minutes I was just staring at it. What was going on in my head at that moment were questions like: Who could possibly have sent me this package? Was it a mistake? A prank? Or even something worse?
After some moments of contemplating, I finally went into the kitchen to grab a knife and reluctantly slit the tape open. Inside was an old leather journal neatly wrapped tissue paper. From the weather the cover looked, it seemed to be a journal that had passed through many hands. There was no note, no explanation—just the journal and a key at the corner of the box.
I brought out the journal from the box. The first page was filled with handwriting I didn't recognize.
“To whoever finds this, know that you are holding not just my story, but a piece my soul. Read with patience. Understand with care.”
I was beginning to feel goosebumps.
The first set of pages had dates as far back as 1968, to be exact. They described a young man named Henry moving to the city, full of ambition but later end up being lonely. His words came out like more of confessions.
Towards the middle of the book I noticed something shocking, the address he wrote at the top of each page was my house's address. This couldn't be right. My house wasn't new, sure, but I'd never once considered who lived here before me.
As I flipped further I found sketches —detailed drawings of the very rooms I now lived in, such as the kitchen with its windows, the staircase, even the pattern of the tiles in the bathroom. I closed the book for a second and then my eyes moved to the key I had seen in the box.
It was a small old-fashioned key. I thought of the possibility of it belonging somewhere in the house. That night, I barely slept. I kept the journal on a table close to my bed, together with the key.
First thing in the morning, I carried the key around to find the door it belonged to, I was just too curious. I tried it out on cupboards, drawers, even the basement padlock that hadn't been used before. But it didn't fit in any of them.
It wasn't until the third day when I was looking for something around the fireplace that I noticed a small keyhole behind the grate. I put the key in it slowly and opened it. In front of me was a hidden compartment. Inside was a bundle of letters wrapped in a cloth tied with string. I carried them to the table, untied the bundle and began reading.
They were all addressed to “Margaret.” The handwriting matched the one in the journal. These were a bunch of letters written within the space of years but not a single one of them was sent.
“Margaret, today the loneliness was really unbearable. I walked past the park where we once sat. I still remember that beautiful day, like it was yesterday.”
What I was able to grab from the letters was the story of a man heartbroken, longing for someone who had clearly left him behind. Each one grew more emotional than the previous, until the final letter simply said:
“Margaret, if you ever return, you'll find me here still. I don't know how to stop waiting.”
I began to wonder; who was Margaret? What happened to Henry? Someone clearly wanted me to find out this story, but who, and why now?
I asked around the neighborhood, old residents who might remember. Finally, Mrs Helen nodded knowingly when I mentioned Henry. She had lived two streets over for sixty years.
“Oh, yes,” she said, lowering her voice. “Henry lived alone in that house after his wife left him. People said he never recovered. I knew him to be a kind person. He passed away there many years ago. No children, no family.”
If this was true, then how come about the package?
The following weeks, I kept returning to the journal. I couldn't stop thinking about Henry's words. All he desired was to be remembered. I really felt for the poor guy.
But still, I was trying to figure out how came about the package. Perhaps it was an old neighbor, someone who discovered Henry's belongings and wanted them to find a home. Or maybe something else, I don't know.
All I knew was that I no longer felt alone in my house.
