There were no specific instructions when she’d signed the rental paperwork as to how far she needed to take the renovation. ‘Clean and repair to ensure the habitability of the cottage, with thoughtful restoration.’ What did that even mean?

She swung the mallet and threw it forward into the sheet of plasterboard.

Crack.

A primal surge coursed through her. She swung again, frustration channelled into the mallet. She took another swing.

Crack.

Anger burst forth. She drew the mallet back, further this time.

Crack.

Tears streamed down her cheeks.

One more swing.

The mallet tore right through the board and hit the side of the fireplace, dislodging one of the bricks. It crashed to the hearth.

‘Oh, shit.’ She dropped the mallet.

She was pretty sure this didn’t count as ‘thoughtful restoration’.

She picked up the brick and tried to shove it back into the cavity it came from. But the next brick moved, too. With tentative hands, Nicole felt her way along edge of the fireplace. Four bricks moved beneath her gentle touch. The mortar that should have held them in place was missing.

One by one she removed the bricks, revealing a hole. With the torch on her phone for light, she leaned into the fireplace to get a better look.

Please, God, don’t let there be any spiders in there. Or snakes. Or even a possum.

Inside the hole there was a box and she pulled it out, brushing the dust away. It was wooden, intricately carved with shells and very old. The lid had a name etched deep into its surface. ‘Ivy.’

Nicole gasped. ‘Ivy Wilson’s cottage’, the lady in the hardware store had said. She gently opened the lid, revealing bundles of envelopes bound with yellow ribbon. The thick parchment was stained with the tarnish of age. As she went through the envelopes she saw the same name on each one, Sergeant Thomas Wilson, and a date.

She put the letters back in the box. Nothing good could come of looking into the depths of someone’s personal life.

There was a time when curiosity would have had her tearing open the envelopes. But that curiosity had died along with her previous life.

She carried the old wooden box down the hall and placed it in one of the kitchen cupboards.

There was a loud knock on the door and Nicole jumped. Who could it possibly be?

Perhaps she could pretend she wasn’t home. Another knock. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. They weren’t going away.

Opening the door just a crack, she saw the redhead from the hardware store, Mandy or Maggie or something, with a broad smile on her face and holding a casserole dish in outstretched hands.

Nicole frowned.

‘Hi. It’s Mandy, remember me?’

‘Of course. Hello.’

‘Just a little welcome warmth, for dinner tonight,’ Mandy said.