The Discovery

A few weeks had passed before Eleanor even thought about the sketchbook again. Life had a way of swallowing time. Deadlines at the gallery, long evenings spent restoring canvases, and the steady hum of routine that made the days blur together.

It wasn't until she was digging through her wardrobe, searching for a misplaced scarf, that she saw it. The package from the antique store, still wrapped in brown paper, tucked neatly between folded sweaters.

She frowned, pulling it out and peeling away the paper. How had she forgotten about it?

Settling onto her bed, she flipped through the pages, feeling the smooth weight of history beneath her fingertips. The same abandoned sketches greeted her. Quiet city streets, a bridge over a canal, the curve of a cathedral spire. But as she neared the middle, something unexpected slipped from between the pages.

A folded sheet of paper, thick and textured, unlike the rest.

Eleanor's breath caught as she turned it over.

A wax seal, deep red and unbroken, held the letter shut. It was pressed with an intricate emblem. A crescent moon entwined with ivy.

Her fingers hovered over the seal. Whatever was inside had been hidden away for decades, maybe longer.

Eleanor hesitated for only a moment before carefully breaking the wax seal. The paper inside was old but well-preserved, the ink slightly faded yet still legible.

My dearest Isabelle,

Meet me beneath the great oak, where the moonlight touches the earth. There is no time to waste. What we have hidden must not fall into the wrong hands.

Trust me. Follow the stars, and you will find me.

A.M.

Eleanor read the letter twice, then a third time.

A secret meeting. Something hidden. And a man known only by his initials.

Who was A.M.? What had they hidden? And had Isabelle ever met him beneath that tree?

She could feel it. That quiet pull of curiosity, the same one that had drawn her into the antique store that day.

This was more than just an old letter.This was a mystery. And Eleanor had never been one to ignore a mystery.

A few days later, Eleanor boarded a train to Luxembourg, Paris, to visit her mother. It wasn't a trip she was particularly looking forward to, her mother's sharp opinions about her career and life choices always found a way to surface. But the visit had been overdue, and Eleanor knew she couldn't avoid it forever.

Still, there was something else pulling her toward Luxembourg.

Oliver Graves.

It had been years since she had last seen him, her high school friend, the one who had always been buried in history books while she sketched in the margins of her notebooks. He had gone on to study European artifacts and lost histories, carving out a reputation as one of the most respected researchers in his field. If anyone could help her make sense of the letter, it was him.

She sent him a message before she arrived. A simple "Are you in town?" Nothing about the letter. Not yet.

His reply came quickly.

" I am. Let's meet."

Eleanor met Oliver at a small coffee shop tucked into a quiet street near the gardens. The place was just like she remembered. Dim lighting, the scent of roasted espresso, and the soft hum of conversation in the background.

Oliver hadn't changed much, either. His dark hair was a little shorter, his glasses slightly different, but he still had that same thoughtful expression, the one that always made it seem like he was solving some grand mystery in his head.

After the usual catching up, Eleanor pulled the letter from her bag and placed it between them.

"I found this in an old sketchbook," she said. "I don't know why, but I feel like there's more to it."

Oliver picked it up, his brow furrowing as he traced the faded ink with his fingers.

"Where did you get this?" he asked, his voice quieter now, more serious.

"A little antique shop in the Marais."

He leaned back, considering. Then he nodded. "Come with me. I want to show you something."

Eleanor followed Oliver to his apartment, tucked inside a historic building with wrought-iron balconies and ivy climbing up its stone walls. But it wasn't the apartment itself that surprised her, it was the library inside.

The room was lined with towering wooden bookshelves, stretching from floor to ceiling, filled with books that looked centuries old. Heavy oak tables sat in the center, stacked with research papers, maps, and artifacts carefully placed under glass cases. The smell of aged paper and leather-bound volumes filled the air.

Oliver moved easily through the space, pulling books from the shelves as he spoke. "I specialize in lost European artifacts, but sometimes that includes lost stories. Letters like this" he held up the one she had given him "can tell us more than you think."

He pulled out an old journal, flipping through its pages before stopping at a particular entry. Then, he took out a magnifying glass and compared the handwriting.

After a few moments, he looked up, a flicker of something like excitement in his eyes.

"This letter," he said, tapping the signature, "was written by Adrian Moreau."

Eleanor frowned. "Who?"

"A 19th-century artist," Oliver said, pushing the book toward her. "A brilliant one. And if this letter is real, someone who was hiding something important."

Eleanor felt a thrill of excitement rush through her. Adrian Moreau? A real artist. A real person. This wasn't just some random letter lost to time, this was history.

"This is incredible," she said, leaning over the book Oliver had shown her. "If Adrian Moreau wrote this, then Isabelle was real, too. And whatever he was talking about, whatever was hidden, it could still be out there."

Oliver sighed, setting the letter down. "Eleanor, just because it's real doesn't mean it leads anywhere."

She frowned. "You don't think it's worth looking into?"

He hesitated, rubbing his jaw. "I think people get caught up in stories like this all the time. They chase ghosts, spend money traveling, and in the end, they find nothing but an old love letter with no real meaning."

Eleanor leaned back, crossing her arms. "That's kind of sad, don't you think?"

He gave her a pointed look. "It's realistic."

But Eleanor couldn't shake the feeling that this was more than just a lost love letter. It felt like the beginning of something bigger. An adventure, a mystery waiting to be solved.

Over the next few days, she kept bringing it up. What if they just checked a few things? Looked into Moreau's life, followed the clues. She could tell Oliver was tempted, even if he wouldn't admit it.

Finally, after days of hesitation, he sighed heavily and ran a hand through his hair.

"Fine," he said. "I'll help you. But don't say I didn't warn you if this leads to nothing."

Eleanor grinned. "I'll take my chances."