Chapter 4 - A Knock at the Third Floor
The building at the end of St. Jude’s Lane was ancient, its red bricks worn gray by decades of London soot. Beneath it sat an abandoned bakery with boarded-up windows. Arthur pushed open the heavy wooden entrance door, which creaked softly, and climbed the narrow, dimly lit staircase.
The air inside smelled of old wood, faint peppermint, and winter dampness. On the third floor, a single yellow bulb hung from the ceiling, casting long shadows against the peeling wallpaper. Arthur stopped in front of the door marked 3B.
He hesitated. His hand hovered over the wooden door frame. He was Arthur Hamilton, a man who controlled boardrooms and dictated terms to international conglomerates, yet he felt terrified of what lay behind this thin wooden barrier.
He knocked. Three quiet, deliberate taps.
For a moment, there was only silence. Then, the soft sound of footsteps approached.
"Who is it?" a woman's voice called out, cautious and weary.
"My name is Arthur Hamilton," he said, his voice cracking slightly. "I... I met a little girl today in the square. Lily. She gave me an envelope."
The door unlocked and opened a few inches, held back by a security chain. A woman looked out at him. She was in her early nineties, her face lined with deep wrinkles, her silver hair pulled back into a neat bun. Her eyes were sharp, intelligent, and instantly recognizable.
Arthur gasped. The youthful face in the photograph was gone, aged by sixty long years, but the eyes—the warm, golden-brown eyes—were unmistakably Eleanor’s.
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"Arthur?" she whispered, her voice trembling like a dried leaf in the autumn wind.
"Eleanor," Arthur breathed, tears finally breaking through his stoic composure. "It's you."
