There’s a white A4 envelope on top of one of the boxes, marked PHOTOS, DO NOT BEND, that was sandwiched in between two boxes and exposed when I lifted down the lampshade and the box it was on, though I was in no mood to take a look at the time. The envelope is addressed to M. Calder, but the flap is still sealed. I slide my finger under the corner of the flap and tear the envelope open to pull out the contents, which comprise several aerial photos, standard eight-inch by ten-inch size. I take them over to the window in search of more light. It’s the relative position of the oak tree to the house that I recognize first: three of the photos contain the Manse. In one, the Manse is in the center. In another, a much smaller Manse is at the bottom of the frame, and the shot also comprises the wood and a portion of the loch. In the last, the Manse is at the top and the frame captures the road and a stretch of the side of the valley, down to the river. The other two don’t show the Manse at all; I’m not sure, but I think they might be of farther up the valley. I look in the envelope again. There’s no note, or indication of who sent this, or why. I wonder if it arrived after he disappeared. I suppose my mother must have had to deal with a lot of his correspondence. Perhaps she didn’t care to open something that was so obviously not administrative.

I straighten up then stretch, looking out of the dormer window toward the trees that are gathered at the end of the garden, as if waiting for a chance to enter. Suddenly a flash of movement off to the left catches my eye: a red and black football. It sails through the air then lands only a few meters short of the stone wall that encircles the garden. The ball is followed in short order by a small dark-haired boy, perhaps six or seven, in navy blue tracksuit bottoms and red jumper; he runs to the ball, picks it up, then looks hesitantly at the stone wall. Even at this distance I can tell he’s warring with himself. A sleek black Labrador bounds into view and looks up at him expectantly. As I watch, the boy visibly makes a decision and his face clears: he drop-kicks the ball over the wall. It bounces twice in the garden—my garden—before rolling to a stop beside the leg of a bench that rests on the opposite side. There’s no question that the kick was deliberate. He begins to purposefully scramble over the garden wall. A burst of laughter escapes me.