Ash is a fashion model, not by choice but the desire of his projecting mother. People think he's too cocky for his own good, judging him based on what he posts online. But Ash hates the brush he's been painted with, along with the stereotypes of the...
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Day two of the hottest heat wave I've ever experienced, I personally think working should be illegal but the court and the law don't care about people like me. I lost my rights when I went and trespassed on that abandoned house, now I have to work in any condition. It's rough but what other choice did I have?
Risk going to prison? I don't think so.
Our progress in the manor had been a little slow today, neither Bodi nor I could work for longer than ten minutes without needing a water break. Or concerns of fainting and becoming severely delirious.
In the dining room I found a massive box underneath a cabinet display for ancient plates and cutlery. Inside the box I found diaries and pictures, newspaper cut outs and letters from the eighteen hundreds.
Black and white photographs of boys in baker boy hats, men in top hats and tailored suits with pocket watches. Women in fancy hair pieces with puff sleeve dresses and fitted corsets and pleated skirts.
I can't help but dive straight into the first diary I find, covered in thick dust, the leather slightly distressed around the edges. A gold clip keeps the pages together and I flick it open with my thumb, flying straight to the first entry.
The handwriting is perfectly sculpted, meeting each line with ease. Clearly written in a blue fountain pen as the lines of the words grow between sizes. I attempt to read the first line but I can't make out the words as best as I thought I could.
I peek to the first page, my finger brushing over the name at the top of the page.
William Morgan - 1897
"Wow," I exhale slowly.
A part of me felt guilty looking through these personal items but they could be of worth or notable in history, whoever used to live here and what they did for this community. But I knew nothing about the manor, working here was the first time I had even heard of it.
It's sad that these boxes didn't end up with a family member or someone who knew the family.
Hopefully the council can get them back to their rightful owners.
I scout through the box and pluck out a family photo, a man and a woman and then a daughter and a son. They stand together but none are smiling like they want to be in the same photograph, but I guess that's what things were like back then.
My fingers gingerly flick over the fragile photo with a white border. At the top it reads - The Morgan Family. John, Elizabeth, William and Anna.
I glance over William, the diary I found. He doesn't look much older than thirteen or fourteen. His dark bakerboy hat and smart shirt and tie compliments the rest of his family.
