As I push open the door to the spare bedroom, I fancy I can still smell the oleander flowers on the air and I find my gaze drawn to the top of the chest of drawers, where the vase sat. It is empty, of course, the only sign that the flowers were ever there a slight ring on the varnish.

Grabbing the loft pole from the spare wardrobe, I hook it into the hatch and twist, suddenly feeling apprehensive as I recall the last time I was up in the attic. There is a faint scratching sound as I pull the stiff door down, the hinges squealing, and I pause, feeling my pulse speed up. There is silence again and I brush my nerves away. It must have just been the hinges. Clicking on the torch app on my phone, I slowly climb the ladder and peer inside, relieved when I see the tins of paint stacked neatly against the wall. I tug them out, reaching in to find the rollers and trays that we also bought, when I notice the small stack of suitcases that Rav brought up here. Solid, sturdy fabric, the area around them disturbed. I move forward, casting the beam from my phone over the suitcases. There is something odd, something different about them and it takes me a moment to figure out what it is.

Scratch. Scratch. A scratching comes from the walls, the same as the noise that comes from the chimney. I blink, taking a moment to try and regulate my breathing, waiting for it to come again. Silence. And then all at once I know what it is that is different about the cases. There is no dust on them. Everything up here is covered with a few months’ worth of dust, everything except the suitcases, and I am sure that they were just as dusty when Rav and I came up here to bring the mirror down. He’s been up here, I think. Rav has been up here and he has moved the suitcases. He’s packing to take them, he must be.

Holding my breath, I unzip the suitcase, but I know what I will find. Clothes. Rav’s clothes, Mina’s clothes. All summer items, tiny skirts and vests for Mina, thin linen shirts for Rav, ones that he bought at the market the last time we visited Goa. I rummage through the tiny dresses, the thin, soft linen, before plunging my hands into the inside pockets, not sure what it is exactly that I’m looking for. Something rustles inside the pocket and I slow down, letting my fingers grasp it and pull it out. It’s a thin sheet of paper, folded in half, and when I open it, I immediately wish I hadn’t. The paper shakes slightly in my hand as I read over the words handwritten in black ink on the page.

Baroque pearl/gold inlay – 24ct,
£495 – to be collected. PAID