find me.

The mysterious finding.

I carefully go down on my knees, one knee at a time, and they come in contact with the dusty floor of the attic. I reach for a box which is the most precious box I own not because of its value or its appearance, but for its content. In the box are letters which I have received from my lover in France. Every letter is handwritten and they each carry a lot of love, and deep passion. His neat cursive handwriting tells me that he writes these letters so delicately and thoughtfully. The faint smell of his cologne on the paper makes me feel as though he is right beside me, holding me, kissing me, whispering the beautiful words of his letters into my ears in his thick French accent. 'Ma chéri,' I imagine him calling me in a sultry tune that will drive me crazy.

I put in the code to the box and lift it open. The letters are neatly stacked atop each other in no particular order. I close my eyes and pick one from the middle, I want to be surprised when I read it, I want to feel like I am reading it for the first time. I keep my eyes closed and I slide my fingers into the envelope and pull out the piece of paper. I open my eyes and I smile as soon as I see what letter I have chosen. Ah, it is the letter he sent me on my birthday five months ago, I know this because every single letter has a date on it. I always think about this particular letter. I'll gladly read it again.

Ma chéri,

It is with great pleasure and sadness that I write you this letter. Pleasure because I am elated to contact you once again, and sadness because I am unable to be there with you on such a special day. Oh, I so badly want to see you, to kiss your beautiful lips and to stare into those beautiful eyes that I always dream about. I wish I knew you before you got married, our story would have been much more different. The child in your belly would have been mine. I am sitting at my desk as I write you this letter and I am unable to perform my duties at work because the thought of your beautiful face is all that fills my mind. I hope you have a wonderful birthday ma amour, I want you to smile, drink a lot of that red wine that you love (or not, due to your pregnancy) and spend the night eating chocolate and watching those telenovelas that you love so much (although I think they are absolutely appalling.) And as I always say, you're beautiful, and you're special in every way. Everything about you is special, my goodness, you turn me into a madman! I cannot wait until the day I finally meet you, my love. I want to hold you in my arms and whisper sweet nothings in your ears. Bon Anniversaire, ma chéri. Bon Anniversaire!

From your love- Maxime.

I let out a sigh as soon as I'm done reading his letter. His words make me swoon like I am a sixteen-year-old girl again in love with an older boy. I feel so silly, but I love feeling this way. I love feeling a child-like giddiness, it keeps me young, it keeps me alive! I trace my fingers over his beautiful cursive writing and I make sure my fingers go over each bent line of his writing. I put my face close to the paper and I take in the smell of his cologne. I gently fold the paper and I put it back into the envelope. I place it on top of the pile and I am about to close the box, but then something catches my eyes. At the bottom of the box is a white envelope, but I know it is not one of Maxime's letters because it does not have a hand-drawn heart shape at the top right corner of the envelope. Maxime never forgets to draw a heart on the exact spot on all the envelopes. I always tease him for doing so, I say to him ' you're such a child,' but he knows that deep down I love his child-like side, so he never fails to draw it. Also, the colour of this envelope is different, it looks like it was once white but the passage of time has made it turn into a duller, less attractive colour.

I carefully pull out the envelope making sure not to cause the others to fall. Even the texture of the envelope is wrong. It is made with thinner paper than that of the envelope Maxime uses. I lift the flap of the envelope and pull out a brown paper which much like the envelope, has accumulated a lot of dirt. I lift the paper which is folded in half and then I straighten it and fix the bent edges. In it is a note in a handwriting I do not recognize, and can hardly comprehend. The slapdash writing looks as though the writer wrote the note in a hurry, or maybe even panic. It starts off quite neatly and halfway through the end of the letter the writing gets sloppy. I get an unsettling feeling deep within my chest as I start to read the letter.