223.78C + 1

“Where is it, where is it, where is it,” the man shuffled through papers. His fingers were bleeding from cuts, the papers he was handling haphazardly were tinged red and brown and all shades in between on the sides, every now and then, another would prick his fingers. He had cursed at the beginning, hissed at the next dozen, and now he would just stare at the fresh cuts sadly. As he kept shuffling through them.

This was important. He hadn’t believed in it when the lady had been waiting outside his door, sunglasses and all, the perfect picture of something out of a spy story, the kind he had used to love as a boy. He couldn't even believe that she was here for him. When he had tried to walk past her, head lowered, maybe she had the wrong house, she placed a manicured, yet firm hand on his chest, and stopped him. Her palm had felt strong.

The papers rustled as they fell back on one another, he hissed as he got up, hands on his head, circling around anxiously. Light shuffled in through the blinds that were mostly closed.

He had first looked around, confused, then at the hand on his chest, then at her. She had a birthmark right below her left ear. No, it was left for him, the right for her. Other than that, her skin was flawless, dark sunglasses could not hide all the light that seemed to glow from within her.

He fell back down, wincing as his buttocks hit the ground too hard. Dust motes danced through the air. Other than the papers, and his anxious, quick breathing, everything was silent. The mostly dark room smelled of fear and sweat and exhaustion.

Then she had taken off her glasses. Her eyes were magnificent. There was no other word for them. One blue, one light green. Piercing, sharp.

He bounced to his feet now, energy renewed, he thought maybe there was a pile of papers in the safe. The room was empty but for the papers next to the window, by which light he deciphered them. And for the painting at the far end. Above a small mahogany desk. It was carpeted with a thick carpet that tried to muffle the sounds, but the man was heavy. There was a thud, not a very sharp thud, but a thud nonetheless, that accompanied every one of his steps.

She had painted a story, after she had introduced herself, and lied to him about why she was here. He had led her inside, poured her some tea, on that bright sunny, but chilly day, and she had started talking. She had painted a story of an ancient prophecy, that once united man, all cultures, as one tribe. Then it was lost, when the tribe began to war among itself. Three elders, with incredible foresight had already prepared a document that would carry through the centuries, and they each passed it down to their generations. Two of those were lost forever.

“Why, oh why did you have to do it”, he looked at the painting of his grandfather, “Why’d you have to burn it.”

One of them was with his family, she had said. Her organization had traced it down to his family. He had immediately thought of the book. It had been on his mind for a while, that day would be six years exactly since his grandfather had burned it, and five years to the day since he had died. It was August 17th.

He opened the safe. What his grandfather had told him before he passed away in Mo’s arms, that there was a copy, he didn’t pay much heed to it. The book had been important to him once. As a family mythos. But a year had passed since it was lost to the fire, and nothing had happened. The power it had held for him had faded. Now he opened the safe, breath bated.