The night enveloped London like dark velvet embroidered with silver threads of stars. In an old publishing house on the city's outskirts, where the air smelled of aged paper and dust, John Coplestone sat at his desk, his eyelids trembling with exhaustion. The light of a single desk lamp, humming like a weary beetle, cast faint glimmers on the pile of manuscripts cluttering the desk. Outside the window, the autumn wind whispered, swaying the bare branches of trees, while the full, cold moon bathed the street in silvery radiance.
His fingers, scented with ink and coffee, barely held the pen, and his head slowly drooped toward the desk, sinking into a brief, restless slumber.
Sometimes it happens that work is not just a duty but something more — something that binds you like chains yet warms you like an embrace. For John, the publishing house was both. It was his grandfather's legacy, a man whose voice still echoed in his memories, but also a burden dragging him down toward the brink of bankruptcy. Every new manuscript, every story that landed in his hands, was a chance to breathe life into this old house but also a reminder of how little time remained. John loved his work, loved the smell of paper, the rustle of pages, but at times he felt like a workhorse ridden by an invisible master.
Lately, things had been worse than ever, and in an attempt — yet another — to claw his way back from rock bottom, at least to a somewhat stable bottom, John had thoroughly overworked himself. His eyes, clouded with fatigue, closed, and he slipped into a dream where he saw the sea, the stars, and…
A sharp ring of the telephone sliced through the silence like a knife. John flinched, his hand instinctively reaching for the receiver, his voice, hoarse from sleep, muttering, "Hhh… Coming right up…" He rubbed his eyes, trying to pull himself together. "Right away… XXXXX Publishing, listening…"
"I knew you'd still be at work," came a voice from the receiver, soft but with a hint of reproach that made John smile despite his exhaustion. It was Lucy, her voice like the autumn wind, seeping into his heart, stirring warmth and a pang of pain at once.
"Hey, Lucy," he replied, his fingers unconsciously touching his disheveled hair as if trying to tidy himself up. "Mmm… just stayed a bit late."
"Spare yourself, John," she said, her voice softening but tinged with concern. "You've been working like a damned soul lately."
He sighed, leaning back in the chair that creaked under his weight. "It's fine. Just… a couple of interesting plots came up. A mess, you know." His eyes drifted over the desk, where manuscripts lay, each promising either salvation or another failure.
"You should ask Kate for help," Lucy suggested, and John felt his chest tighten. Kate, his colleague, nearly as obsessed with work as he was, was somewhere out there, in her apartment, perhaps finally resting. She was the only one who stayed with him amidst the heap of problems piling up on the publishing house. John never understood why she stayed, why she hadn't found a proper job. Kate could have, without a doubt… What was the point of wasting her prime years in such a dump?
"She's already practically living here, like me," he replied, his voice quieter. "I let her go early today. At least one of us should get some rest."
"You're lucky to have her," Lucy said, and a note in her tone flickered — either a jest or a trace of jealousy, John couldn't quite decipher.
"No kidding," he replied, his fingers gripping the receiver tighter. He pictured Kate, her sharp gaze, her sardonic smile, and suddenly felt exhaustion retreat for a moment, giving way to warmth.
"You sound completely drained," Lucy continued. "I won't keep you, just… what are you doing Friday night? I want to have dinner with you."
John froze, his eyebrows rising in surprise. "Friday?" he echoed, his mind clouded with memories of their last meeting — her flare of anger, words that cut like a blade. "That's an odd invitation… considering how we parted."
"I got carried away," Lucy said softly, a vulnerability in her voice that John hadn't heard in a long time. "So… will you come? I need to talk to you."
"Yeah… sure," he replied, his voice gentle, though a sting pricked his chest. Lucy always had a hold over him, one he couldn't explain. Her smile, her eyes, her voice — it was all like nectar, drawing him in and poisoning him at once.
"Great!" she exclaimed, and John could imagine her lips stretching into a smile. "I was afraid you'd say no. I'll let you know the place later."
"Deal, Lucy," he said, his fingers brushing his hair as if imagining her auburn strand falling over her shoulder.
"Productive work! Don't stay too late… Bye!" She hung up before he could finish, and John sighed, his lips twisting into a bitter smile. He hated being cut off, interrupted mid-sentence. But Lucy… Lucy was an exception. Always had been. His heart clenched with memories of her — how he fell in love before the publishing house became his burden, how her laughter filled his world, how her departure left an emptiness.
"She's probably right… Time to go home," he muttered, his voice lost in the silence of the office. The lamp's hum seemed to echo his exhaustion, but he stood, his movements slow, as if every muscle protested. He glanced at the window — second floor, not too high, but no bars, only the illusion of safety. What was there to steal in a publishing house on its last legs? Manuscripts? Dreams? John smiled bitterly, slung his briefcase over his shoulder, and checked the windows, feeling the cold of the glass seep into his fingers.
The night London greeted him with a cool autumn breeze that swayed the bare branches and carried the scent of damp leaves. The full moon hung in the sky like a lantern, bathing the old streets in silvery light. John walked, his footsteps echoing loudly on the cobblestones, his thoughts buzzing like a swarm of bees. He thought of Lucy, her voice, their Friday dinner that could be either a new beginning or another disappointment. He thought of Kate, her loyalty to the publishing house, how she might be sleeping now or perhaps reading another manuscript by lamplight. And of his grandfather — the man whose shadow still lay on his shoulders, whose words about "legacy" rang in his head like a reproach.
His melancholy was interrupted by a voice from the darkness of the park.
"Mr. Coplestone! Mr. Coplestone, wait!" John stopped, his brows furrowing as he made out a silhouette approaching. It was Mr. Nelson, the old homeless man whose "home" — a park bench — was near the publishing house. His gray hair swayed in the wind, and his eyes gleamed as if hiding some secret.
"Oh, it's you, Mr. Nelson," John said, his voice soft but weary. "Sorry, I'm a bit broke myself today."
Nelson laughed, his laugh raspy but good-natured. "Oh, John, I'm not here for that." He stepped closer, his tattered coat swaying like a sail. "Something strange happened to me today."
John raised an eyebrow, his fingers instinctively brushing his disheveled hair.
"Tell me," he said, though his mind screamed to get home, to bed, to sleep. But there was something about Nelson that made him listen — perhaps his stories of local gossip, perhaps his sincerity that contrasted with John's cynicism.
"I won't drag it out," Nelson said, his eyes glinting in the moonlight. "My midday nap was interrupted by kids kicking a ball in the park. Their noise didn't bother me, but after a bad kick, the ball flew toward my bench, and I decided to move. And that's when I found this."
He pulled two yellowed envelopes from his tattered bag and handed them to John. John took them, his fingers feeling the rough texture of old paper. One envelope bore the number "1," the other "2." He turned them over, his eyes narrowing as he read the inscription: "To Mr. John Coplestone."
"And who left these?" he asked, his voice quieter, as if afraid to wake the night. His mind buzzed with questions: who, why, how? The envelopes looked ancient, as if from another era, yet the address was clear, as if written yesterday.
"No idea," Nelson replied, his smile enigmatic. "I haven't spoken to anyone but those kids and you. It's… a miracle, John." He laughed, but a shadow flickered in his eyes, as if he didn't quite believe his own words.
John turned the envelopes in his hands, exhaustion mingling with curiosity. "Miracles, you say?" he muttered, his voice laced with sarcasm, though a stir of unease rose in his chest. "I don't think I believe in miracles, Nelson."
"Maybe you don't," the old man replied, his eyes twinkling like stars. "But they happen, John. Sometimes what we think is ordinary is the miracle." He clapped John on the shoulder, his hand light but warm. "Go home, you look like a ghost. Tomorrow will be fine."
"Sweet dreams, Mr. Nelson," John said, his voice soft but tinged with gratitude. He watched as the old man vanished into the park's darkness, his silhouette dissolving in the moonlight like a specter.
John stood for a moment, clutching the envelopes, his fingers gripping them as if they might crumble. Questions buzzed in his head: who left the letters? Why Nelson? Why do they look so old? But exhaustion took over, like a sea pulling him into its depths. He tucked the envelopes into his briefcase and headed home, his footsteps echoing on the cobblestones.
When he reached his apartment, he didn't even take off his shoes. The welcoming couch, old and worn, embraced him like an old friend. John collapsed onto it, his eyes closing, and he sank into a deep, heavy sleep. In his dream, he saw the sea, the stars, and her — Lucy, whose smile was both light and pain. And somewhere in the depths of his mind lay two yellowed envelopes, waiting to be opened, like doors to another world.