The attic was smaller than she remembered, or perhaps she was simply larger in it now — more cautious, more aware of the low beams and the way the old floorboards shifted softly under her feet. Boxes were stacked along one wall, each one labelled in Harold’s handwriting. She let the torchlight pass over them the way you let your eyes pass over a scar: quickly, without lingering.
It was in the far corner, half hidden behind a collapsed cardboard box, that she saw it. A rope. Old, thick, the colour of dried straw. It was coiled neatly, the way a sailor might leave it, looped around itself with care. Edna frowned. She had no memory of a rope. Harold had not been a sailor, or a camper, or anything remotely outdoorsy. He had been an accountant who liked crossword puzzles and strong tea.
She crossed the attic slowly, bent down with the deliberate grace of a woman who had long since made peace with her knees, and picked it up. It was heavier than she expected. And tied to one end, with a careful double knot, was a small brown envelope.
