He sighed and sat back. Before him, two sheets of the thick letter paper were covered with writing, awkward and scratchy at first, but growing more fluid as he got used to the pen. He picked up the first sheet, to read it back from the beginning.

Dear A,

He stared, feeling odd. He’d intended to write to his mother, his father, but that wasn’t what had happened.

Dear A,
I have your case.

What followed was almost a confession, about how he came to buy the case at the expense of his Hermes, about his failure as a writer, a traveller, a son, as anything really. He felt the heat rising to his face, alarmed by his own honesty. He’d written about Tangier as it was now and how he imagined it then. He’d written to A. L. wondering whether they were similar people, wishing he could post the letter back through time and space, and receive a reply from the past.

The letter broke off mid-sentence. He stared at the pages, thrilled and uneasy. As a piece of writing it was next to useless; it wasn’t a plea to his parents, or even a story he could sell to a magazine to make some money. And yet, it felt like a start, the beginning of something new.

It was as he was reading the letter for a second time that his neck began to prickle, as if he was being watched. He looked up into the mirror that reflected back the café: a few tables away, someone was staring straight at him.

It was an old man, his eyes concealed by semi-opaque spectacles, and by a fedora hat that would have been stylish in another decade. Slowly, the man’s mouth twitched and he nodded.

Sam turned in surprise, only to catch sight of his own face. There was a huge dark smear across his forehead; he’d managed to cover himself with ink.

What an idiot. No wonder the old man was staring. Too embarrassed to look up again, Sam pushed himself from the table and headed for the bathroom. In the dim light, he scrubbed the ink from his skin, staring critically at his half-open shirt, his straggling, sun-licked hair and dirty tan. If he’d lived fifty years before, he would have been dressed smartly, elegantly.

Lost in thought, he made his way back to the table. He’d bring the letter to a close; sign it off with his name. A first chapter, maybe …

He sat down and reached for the pen, only to stop. Everything was just as he had left it, except for the letter.

The letter was gone.

Alabazam