The Letter Under the Floorboard

Halle had been in the new house for three days when she found it. She was unpacking her books — the box marked HALLE BOOKS in her dad's careful handwriting — when her foot pressed down on the corner of the floorboard by the window and the floorboard rose up about a centimetre.

She sat back on her heels.

Halle was the sort of person who noticed things. (Mrs Lukacs, her teacher at her old school, had said so on every report card. Halle is observant. She notices what others miss. Halle had always thought of this as either a compliment or a warning, depending on the day.)

She pressed the corner again. It rose. She wedged her finger underneath. The board lifted out — not all the way, just enough for her to see down into the dark space beneath.

The space smelled of old wood and dust and a long-quiet kind of cold.

There was something inside.

Halle reached in with two fingers, the way she had seen archaeologists do on television. She drew out a folded piece of paper, brittle at the edges, the colour of milky tea.

It was a letter.

The handwriting was small and neat. The date at the top said 14 March 1942.

Dear Pa, the letter began, I am writing this in the dark because they have turned the lights off again because of the planes. Mum says we are not to be afraid but I think she is afraid too. The cat has gone missing. Two days now. I have been looking everywhere. I think she is—

The letter stopped there. Mid-sentence. As if the writer had been called away, or had run out of time, or had simply put the pen down and never picked it up again.

Halle held the letter on the flat of her palm. It seemed to weigh more than a piece of paper should.

"Dad!" she called. "Dad, come here a minute."

Her dad came up the stairs slowly. He was tired from unpacking. He stood in her doorway with a mug of tea in his hand.

"What've you got?"

Halle showed him.

He read it. His face went a particular kind of still.

"Halle. Where was this?"

"Under the floorboard. The wobbly one."

He sat down on the edge of her unmade bed.

"Eighty-three years," he said, quietly, working it out. "Whoever wrote this would be — about ninety, if they're still alive. Probably gone."

"Probably," said Halle.

"Probably," said her dad again.

Halle looked at the letter. Then she looked at him.

"I want to find out who wrote it," she said. "And I want to know what happened to the cat."

Her dad smiled — a tired smile, but a real one.

"Then that," he said, "is your project for the holidays."

He went back down the stairs. Halle sat on her bedroom floor with the letter on her lap. She did not feel it was a project. She felt it was a duty. The writer had not been able to finish. Somebody had to.