A Loose Board
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