The attic of the Seafoam Cottage was a space of arrested decay. Unlike the living room, which felt actively dismantled, the attic was a tomb. It smelled of dried cedar, ancient dust, and the stale, concentrated heat of eighty sun-baked summers. It was here, in the oppressive silence under the pitched roof, that Anya and Liam had spent the better part of the last three days.
Anya had made good on her threat. Liam was working with a handsaw, methodically cutting the dry-rotted lintel she had saved in Chapter 1 into manageable, two-foot segments. The work was painstaking, generating a rhythmic, scraping sound that was somehow more infuriating to Anya than the brute force of the sledgehammer had been. The meticulous, controlled pace suited her historian's heart, but the sheer physical power Liam was exerting to make those slow, clean cuts was a constant, distracting vibration in the small space.
For her part, Anya was documenting the ceiling joists of what had once been a small, claustrophobic storage room adjacent to the main chimney flue. The chimney breast itself was a historical goldmine, built using local stone and surprisingly intact, but the adjoining partition wall—a flimsy, non-load-bearing structure of lath and plaster—was coming down.
She was balanced precariously on a short step-ladder, holding her borescope camera, aiming the flexible lens into a gap where the lathe met the roof decking.
"You're going to blow out your shoulder, O'Connell," she muttered, not looking away from the camera screen. "Take a break. Get some water."
"The wood's dense, Anya, even when it's soft," Liam grunted, pausing only to shift his grip on the saw handle. He was sweating profusely, the gray cotton of his shirt now entirely saturated across his back. "Good thing I'm not a pathologist, huh? I'm built for the effort."
"You're built for preservation now," Anya retorted, her voice tight. She was trying desperately to ignore the play of muscle across his back and arms – a distraction that made the tedious process of measuring joist spans seem impossibly complicated. "And preservation means not winding up in the ER on my watch."
"Duly noted," Liam said, before falling back into the shick-shick-shick rhythm of the saw.
Anya finally pulled the camera out, dropping down the ladder. "Done with this section. You can start cutting the lath on that partition wall when you finish this beam."
Liam didn't reply immediately. He made one final, deep stroke, and the last segment of the rotted lintel cracked free and dropped cleanly to the floor. The sound echoed heavily in the enclosed space. He tossed the saw onto a pile of debris and finally looked up, stretching his arms high above his head with a groan of profound relief.
"I'm not working on the partition wall yet," he said, his voice calmer now that the manual strain was over. He walked over to where the partition wall met the chimney. The lath and plaster wall was already heavily damaged from the removal of trim and skirting, exposing the vertical studs beneath.
"Why not?" Anya asked, irritated by the deviation from her schedule. "It's a simple takedown. We need to assess the masonry behind it before the storm on Thursday."
"Because," Liam said, his tone suddenly devoid of sarcasm and filled with a contractor's specific kind of focus, "the studs are sitting oddly low here." He pressed his hands against the vertical timber. "The original builder should have cut the studs to span the full height between the floor and the roof joist. But these three here, they only go up about four feet."
Anya frowned, walking closer. The top of the three shortened studs was capped by a horizontal cross-brace, sealed off by plaster that was slightly darker and smoother than the rest of the surrounding wall. It was a section that looked, to her trained eye, like it had been patched or installed later.
"It looks like a shallow closet was covered up," she suggested, peering at the difference in texture.
Liam shook his head, running a thumb over the seam. "If it was a closet, the plaster would be rough where they painted over the doorframe. This isn't a covered door. It's too smooth. It's a sealed cavity. Someone built a wall inside the wall, and they did it to hide something."
Anya's heart gave a quick, involuntary thump against her ribs. This was it – the moment every historian dreamed of, the secret space, the hidden compartment that defied architectural convention.
"Do not touch it," she commanded, her voice low and tense.
Liam shot her a look. "It's non-load-bearing, Anya. I'm ripping this out. It's termite bait. I'm taking the whole partition down anyway. I'm just saying, if there's a gold cache, I get finder's fee."
"You are not ripping anything out," she insisted, stepping between him and the wall. "You will get the finest chisel you own, and you will delicately cut around that patched section until it comes away clean. I need the entire seal documented, Mr. O'Connell."
Liam sighed, rolling his shoulders, but the irritation quickly gave way to a grudging intrigue. "A chisel? Really? Fine, but if I'm going to excavate this like an Egyptian tomb, I need that light you were using."
They spent the next hour in a tense, claustrophobic ballet. Liam, using a hammer and a wide, flat chisel, worked with surprising finesse, chipping away at the newer, darker plaster. Anya knelt beside him, holding a powerful LED floodlight, documenting every flake of plaster and nail head with her camera. The sweat ran in rivulets down her temples, and she could feel Liam's powerful, contained energy beside her, yet they never once touched.
Finally, with a gentle pop, a rectangular section of plaster, perhaps twelve inches by eight, broke free from the wall. Liam caught it and set it aside.
The cavity revealed was only three inches deep, tucked neatly between the studs and shielded by a thin backing of plywood. It was completely empty, save for one thing: a small bundle, perhaps the size of a paperback book, wrapped in a brittle, brown linen cloth. The air that escaped the cavity was dry and musty, carrying the sharp, sweet smell of aged paper.
Liam reached for it, but Anya's hand shot out, wrapping around his wrist. Her fingers were surprisingly strong, and his entire arm went still.
"No. Gloves," she said breathlessly. "And we open it outside of the cavity."
The touch lasted only a second, but it was enough to spark something electric between them – the shared, breathless anticipation of a discovery that belonged only to them.
Liam swallowed, pulling his hand back slowly. "Right. Gloves."
They donned their clean cotton gloves. Liam, his large hands now rendered surprisingly delicate, maneuvered the linen-wrapped bundle out of the cavity. It felt impossibly light, like holding a handful of dry leaves.
They moved quickly to the attic window, throwing it open to let in a draft of cool, relieving sea air. They knelt together on the rough-sawn floor, dust swirling around them.
Liam gently peeled back the linen. Inside was a stack of approximately twenty envelopes, yellowed and brittle, tied together tightly with a faded, pale pink satin ribbon. The ribbon, once vibrant, was now almost white, and the knot was so old it threatened to crumble. The envelopes were uniform in size, and each one bore the same handwritten script in dark, spidery ink. None of them had stamps.
Anya let out a long, slow breath. "Unsent. They were never sent."
Liam, silent now, pointed to the top envelope. At the top left, written meticulously in the same hand, was a date: April 14, 1944.
Anya reached out, her fingers trembling slightly, and picked up the first envelope. The back flap was still sealed with a single, unbroken wax impression of a simple naval anchor.
"We need to document the state of the wax seal before we attempt to open it," she murmured, already pulling out her camera to photograph the bundle. "This is exquisite. This is… a time capsule. This is exactly what the house has been trying to tell us."
"A time capsule of what?" Liam asked, his voice rough. "Looks like a letter collection."
"It's a secret," Anya corrected him, lifting the letter up so the natural light caught the aged paper. "Look at the date. The war. And the naval seal. This is a story. A private, desperate story."
With slow, agonizing care, Anya used her surgical scalpel (a tool usually reserved for cleaning dirt from archaeological artifacts) to break the brittle wax seal on the first letter. The dried envelope gave way with a soft crackle, and she withdrew the single, thin sheet of folded paper.
She smoothed it out on her clipboard, protecting it from the rough wood floor. The ink was faded but legible. She began to read, her historian's heart giving way, just for a moment, to the intimate voice of the past.
My Dearest James,
I sit here staring out at the bluest water and know that the Atlantic is the only thing standing between us now, but it feels like the whole of the world. I read your brief note – the one that made it through, over and over, until the ink fades where my thumb rests. You shouldn't risk them, my love. The risk of discovery is too great, for both of us.
Anya's voice was soft, reverent, the sound of a woman reading a prayer. Liam leaned in, unable to stop himself, the smell of old paper and sea air replacing the dust and sweat.
I know we agreed to this silence, James, and I know why our devotion must remain buried beneath the lies we tell. He suspects, I'm sure. He watches me. And I fear the cost if this ever sees the light of day. Our love is too fierce, too impossible for this small town, and sometimes, late at night, I feel like our passion has cursed this very house. That if we ever truly claimed each other openly, the Seafoam Cottage would crumble into the sea in judgment.
Anya stopped reading. The heat of the attic and the dust-filled air felt suddenly cold. The words hung between them: He suspects. Forbidden love. Cursed this very house.
Liam's expression had hardened, the amusement and skepticism gone, replaced by a profound unease. He reached out and gently traced the date, 1944, printed at the top.
"Eleanor and James," Anya whispered, looking up at Liam. Her sea-glass eyes were wide, glittering with a mixture of professional excitement and personal awe. "They were lovers. A forbidden romance. And she believed their love would destroy the house."
Liam slowly shook his head, his gaze sweeping around the dusty, crumbling attic. "And she never sent it. Why hide it in the wall if she didn't send it?"
"Closure, perhaps. Or perhaps fear," Anya countered, turning the envelope over. "She saved them all. But look, the dates stop abruptly. The last one is dated December 1945. The war was over, James should have been home. But all the letters were still hidden here, unsent."
Liam frowned, his jaw tight. "A curse. A forbidden love. Sounds like a bad movie plot."
"It's history, Liam," Anya said, her voice firm, defensive of the lovers. "It's real history. And the entire Seafoam Cottage project has just shifted. The structural failure of the building might not be a function of bad lumber and sea air. It might be a product of this story, of this failure to communicate, this lingering lack of closure."
Liam watched her, seeing the transformation. The meticulous preservationist was now an ardent detective, eyes blazing with purpose.
"So now what, Historian?" he asked, the sarcasm returning, but softer, edged with curiosity. "We've found their secret. Do you put them in a museum exhibit labeled 'The Cursed Correspondence'?"
Anya carefully gathered the bundle, tying the ribbon back as delicately as possible. "No. We find James. Or we find Eleanor. Or we find their descendants. We find out why these were never sent, and we deliver the truth they deserve. This house needs closure to be saved, Liam. And I am going to find it."
She looked down at the bundle, then back up at the handsome, silent contractor kneeling beside her, the dust and the heat forgotten. Liam's presence was a jarring, physical fact against the brittle, fragile history In her hands. She had come here to save wood and plaster, but now she was tasked with saving two long-dead hearts. And in the process, she was suddenly, acutely, aware of the growing, undeniable force between her and the enigmatic man who had just helped her unearth a sixty year old secret.
We have the letters! Now Anya has a dual focus: restoring the house and solving the mystery of James and Eleanor.