The door creaked open, revealing a long forgotten room. Emma paused, half expecting the lop-sided mirror to jump of its own accord to the floor. She ventured in, feeling more confident but inwardly chiding herself for being so scared. The attic room had an air of melancholy about it. The old dressing table covered thickly with layers of dust and neglect was set with a tortoiseshell- handled brush and comb that now sat forlornly on its walnut wood top. Emma gently picked up a small green velvet box. She used her sleeve to wipe the dust and cobwebs from its lid, upon which were monogrammed the letters J M. She wondered who J M was as she lifted the lid and heard the reluctant squeak of the little brass hinge as she did so. In front of her were a gold pair of worn but still elegant cufflinks, diamond-shaped with a simple ridged pattern fringing their edges.

She shut the lid and replaced the box, suddenly feeling as if she were intruding. The estate agents were more keen to sell the property to her and her husband, Keith, than they were to tell her much about its history. Maybe they really didn’t know. She recalled viewing the place just a few short weeks earlier. It was exactly its sense of history that had attracted them. From the black and white tiles of the hall way to the beautifully carved staircase, the generously proportioned rooms with original shutters on the windows, and then, there were the gardens. She rubbed off some of the dirt, peering through the attic room window to glance at the gardens. Despite their neglect, she could still trace the formal outlines of a rose garden.

Emma turned around and found her attention wandering over the objects as if she had just uncovered an ancient Egyptian tomb. Might she come across ‘wondrous things’ as Howard Carter had upon finding the tomb of the boy king Tutankhamun? She doubted it somehow. And as if to confirm her suspicions, her eyes were drawn to an unremarkable wooden box lying next to an old teddy that sat, like a sphinx , on the creaky floor. She nudged the small box with the toe of her trainers. On closer inspection she could see that it was, in fact, an old cigar box. Her smart watch vibrated, reminding her that she had an appointment at the dentist in exactly forty minutes and that the traffic was light. Emma found herself inadvertently running her tongue over her teeth. She hated the dentist, but it was as her mother had constantly reminded her, a necessary evil.

For a moment Emma considered leaving straightaway but the cigar box drew her gaze once more. Telling herself that it wouldn’t take long to have a quick peek inside, she wrapped her jumper sleeve around her hand and bent down to pick it up. As she lifted it up, an indignant spider disappeared quickly into a gap in the floorboards. She was glad that the spider had found itself a new home as it relieved her of the impulse to squash it with the nearest thing to hand. She blamed her mother again for her neuroticism.

Now standing with the cigar box in hand, she unfastened the little hook on its front and lifted back the lid. The smell was pungent but not unpleasant. A sepia photograph of a young soldier in army uniform stared back. She carefully lifted it out and continued to scrutinize the young man’s face. Early twenties she thought. His expression wasn’t sad, more resigned. Perhaps it was this that kept her attention as the minutes passed. So many questions buzzed through her head like an unwelcome swarm of wasps at a summer picnic. Had he lived here? What was his name? Who were his parents? And still his penetrating eyes and clasped hands kept her in the same place.

A car horn brought her rudely back to the present. Then her watch reminded her that she needed to leave now for her appointment as the traffic was now heavy. Emma turned the dog-eared photo over.

It was the neat handwriting that first struck her. A script of yesteryear, all neat and even looping letters written with a fountain pen. As she lingered over the letter shapes and their flowing lines, the actual words burst upon her:

John McKenzie, Private, First Battalion of The Lancashire Fusiliers, June 1915.

And added underneath in a smaller right-leaning hand,

You never came home son. Sleep tight my darling boy, Mother x