Seventeen was not a room
The door opened onto a staircase and a smell of dust rather than danger. Mr. Vale insisted on bringing a torch. In the cellar, shelves held obsolete signs, broken chairs and a wooden card catalogue rescued from the old railway station. Each drawer had a little brass number. Seventeen had been polished clean, though its neighbors wore a dull brown film.
The key turned easily. Inside was a photograph of six teenagers beside a station clock, a packet of letters and a folded programme for a concert that had never taken place. Mara recognized the youngest face in the photograph as Mr. Vale. The girl beside him held a violin case. “My sister, June,” he said. “She was going away to study. We promised to come here once a year and leave a letter for each other. News we were too embarrassed to say aloud.”
Mara lifted the packet only after he nodded. Every envelope was addressed to June. None had a stamp. Mr. Vale explained that an argument had split the group before the first reunion. June had left town; the others had assumed she no longer wanted their letters. Eventually, the station closed and the cabinet came to the library. The concert programme concealed one more envelope. Its paper was fresh. The handwriting matched the tag. “I will be here on the last Thursday,” it said. “If anyone remembers.”