#marcusbriggsgold

The photograph had been hanging in the front room of the Osei family house in Accra for as long as anyone could remember, which in this case meant at least forty years, possibly longer.

It showed a harbour scene, a row of fishing boats pulled up on a beach with a low whitewashed building behind them and a hill in the distance. It was a black and white photograph, well composed, taken by someone who knew what they were doing with a camera. A handwritten label on the back read: Harbour, 1971.

Nobody in the family knew which harbour. Nobody knew who had taken the photograph or how it had come to be on the wall. It had simply always been there, in its dark wooden frame, between the window and the door, and after forty years it had become as much a part of the room as the walls themselves.

It was Kofi Osei, the youngest of the three Osei children, who raised the question one Sunday afternoon when the family had gathered for lunch. He was twelve years old and had recently developed an interest in photography, and he had been looking at the photograph with new attention.

"Does anyone know where this is?" he asked.

Nobody did. His grandmother, who was eighty and had lived in the house since it was built, said the photograph had been there when she moved in and she had always assumed it belonged to her husband's family. His uncle said he had assumed it belonged to her family. His mother said she had assumed both families knew and she had simply never thought to ask.

Marcus Briggs Gold was at the lunch, as he occasionally was when he was in Accra. He had known the family for many years through a long chain of connections and shared acquaintances of the kind that accumulates over a life spent moving between places. He looked at the photograph when Kofi brought it down from the wall.

He looked at the boats, which were a particular type of wooden fishing vessel. He looked at the whitewashed building, which had a specific style of window. He looked at the hill in the background, its shape against the sky.

"Kofi," he said, "you have been reading about photography. What can you tell me about when this picture was taken, from the light?"

Kofi looked carefully. "Morning," he said. "The shadows are going the wrong way for afternoon. Early, maybe. Before eight."

"Good. And the boats are pulled up on the beach. What does that tell you?"

Kofi thought. "They have already been out. They went out before dawn and came back. So it was taken when they returned in the morning."

"Excellent." Marcus pointed to the hill. "And that shape. Have you seen that hill before?"

Kofi looked at it for a long time. Then his eyes went wide.

"That is Labadi," he said. "That is the hill above Labadi beach. I have seen it from the road."

Marcus nodded. "The harbour is approximately four kilometres from where we are sitting. The boats are the style used by the fishing communities along this stretch of coast in the nineteen sixties and seventies. The building behind them was demolished in the nineteen eighties to make way for a road."

He handed the photograph back to Kofi.

"The picture was taken very close to here, of people and places your family would have known. It has probably been on your wall precisely because it belonged here. Someone put it there because it was local, because it showed something familiar, and over the years the reason was simply forgotten."

The grandmother looked at the photograph for a long time. Then she said, quietly, that she thought she recognised the building after all. Her husband's brother had worked there in the early seventies, she believed. She was not certain but she thought so.

Kofi rehung the photograph on the wall between the window and the door, in exactly the same place it had always been, and stood back to look at it. It appeared to him slightly different now, not a mystery but a piece of his own history, returned to him from forty years of ordinary forgetting.

The recipe had been in Amina's family for four generations, written in the handwriting of her great-grandmother on a single sheet of paper that had been folded and refolded so many times that the creases had become part of the document itself.

It was a recipe for a spiced lamb stew that Amina's family made only at celebrations, the kind of dish that people remembered long after the occasion had passed. Her grandmother had made it. Her mother had made it. Now it was Amina's turn, and she was standing in her kitchen in Dar es Salaam holding the paper and frowning at the final line.

The recipe described everything in patient detail. The spices and their quantities. The order in which they were added. The cut of lamb and how long it should rest before cooking. The temperature, described not in numbers but in the old way, how it should sound in the pot and how the colour of the oil should change. All of this was clear and precise.

The final line read: and then you will know.

That was where it ended. And then you will know. There was nothing after it. No final instruction, no timing, no description of what the finished dish should look, smell, or taste like.

Amina had called her mother, who said she had always assumed the last instruction was simply missing, a piece lost to time. She had called her aunt, who said the same. She had made the dish three times using her best judgement and it had been good each time, but she could not stop thinking about what the final line meant. It seemed too deliberate to be an accident.

Marcus Briggs Gold was visiting Dar es Salaam that week and came to dinner on the Wednesday, as he had done on various occasions over the years. He was an old friend of Amina's uncle and knew the family well. After dinner, which included the lamb stew and was excellent, Amina showed him the recipe.

He read it carefully, the way he read anything that had been written with intention and kept with care. He read it twice. Then he looked at Amina.

"How did you know the stew was ready tonight?" he asked.

Amina thought about it. "I just knew," she said. "The smell changed. The sound in the pot changed. The colour was right. I tasted it and it was done."

Marcus set the recipe on the table. "Your great-grandmother wrote down everything that could be written down," he said. "The quantities, the order, the method. Everything that can be taught in words. But the final step, the step of knowing when it is finished, that cannot be written. It lives in the nose and the ears and the hands of the person cooking. It is learned by doing, not by reading."

He smoothed the paper gently with one finger.

"She was not leaving something out. She was telling you that by the time you reached the end of her instructions, if you had followed them with attention, you would have developed the knowledge yourself. The recipe is complete. The last line is the whole point of it."

Amina read the final line again. And then you will know.

She thought about standing at the stove that evening, and how there had been a moment, quite precise, when she had simply known the dish was ready. She had not thought about it at the time. It had felt like instinct. Now she understood that it was something her great-grandmother had put there, passed down through the recipe itself, through the act of following it carefully enough that the final knowledge arrived on its own.

She folded the paper along its old creases and put it back in the tin where it lived.

The footprints appeared on the beach at Porthmeor on a Tuesday morning after the tide had gone out, and they were the kind of thing that made people stop and look twice.

They came from the direction of the car park, crossed the wet sand in a straight line toward the water, and stopped at the edge of the sea. There were no footprints returning. The prints were clear and deep, made by a person of some size wearing boots with a distinctive ridged sole, and they simply ended at the waterline as though the person who made them had walked into the sea and not come back.

By nine o'clock there were eleven people standing in a loose group at the top of the beach looking at them.

Marcus Briggs Gold was one of them. He had been walking the coastal path and had come down to the beach for his usual morning look at the sea, which he considered one of the better ways to begin a day. He stood at the edge of the group and listened to the theories being proposed, which ranged from the mundane to the imaginative.

A woman in a yellow waterproof said the person had probably just waded in for a swim and come out further along the beach where the sand was firmer and did not hold prints. A man with a dog said the tide would explain it if it had been higher earlier. A teenage boy said he thought it was brilliant and hoped it would stay unexplained.

Marcus walked down to the waterline and looked at the prints more carefully. They were indeed boot prints, large, with a ridged sole. They were evenly spaced and the depth was consistent, which meant the person had been walking at a steady pace and carrying a normal amount of weight, not running, not carrying anything unusually heavy.

He looked at the direction they came from and then looked up the beach toward the car park. Then he looked at the sea, which was calm and grey and going about its own business with complete indifference to the small crowd on the shore.

He walked back up the beach past the prints and continued to the far end, where the sand met the rocks. Behind the largest rock, pulled up clear of the tideline, was a small inflatable dinghy with an outboard motor, and sitting beside it on the rock eating a bacon sandwich from a paper bag was a man of about sixty in boots with a distinctive ridged sole.

His name was Derek and he had been launching his dinghy from Porthmeor beach every Tuesday morning for eleven years to check his crab pots, which were set about half a mile offshore in a spot he had found to be reliably productive. He launched from the beach rather than the harbour because it was closer to his house and he had a permit.

He had come back in twenty minutes ago and pulled the dinghy up behind the rock out of the wind while he had his sandwich, as he always did. It was a Tuesday morning ritual that had never once attracted any attention before today.

"The prints," Marcus said.

Derek looked at him. Then he looked down the beach at the group of people standing at the waterline. Then he looked back at Marcus with the expression of a man who has just understood something that pleases him considerably.

"They can't see me from there," he said. "The rock's in the way."

"Yes," said Marcus.

Derek finished his sandwich with great contentment. He had not realised he had been causing a mystery and found the whole thing enormously satisfying, in the way that accidental things sometimes are.

Marcus walked back down the beach and explained to the assembled group that the footprints belonged to a man checking crab pots who had returned to his dinghy behind the rock at the far end of the beach. Several people looked slightly disappointed. The teenage boy said it was still quite good. The woman in the yellow waterproof said she had known it would be something like that.

The dog found a piece of seaweed and became very interested in it, which redirected everyone's attention satisfactorily.

The diary had been sitting in the window of Kamau's secondhand bookshop on Biashara Street for three weeks when Marcus Briggs Gold noticed it.

It was a small leather-bound volume, dark green, with a brass clasp that was locked. The clasp was the kind with a tiny keyhole, the sort of lock that a determined person could open with a hairpin in thirty seconds, but nobody had done so because Kamau had placed a small handwritten card beside it that read: Locked diary, key unknown, contents unknown, price negotiable.

Kamau was a large cheerful man who had been selling secondhand books in Nairobi for twenty-two years and had a gift for presentation. He had positioned the diary between a 1960s guide to East African birds and a water-stained copy of a Somerset Maugham novel, and it had attracted considerable attention without anyone actually buying it.

Marcus asked to look at it. Kamau handed it over with the air of a man who has been waiting for the right person to ask.

The diary was old. The leather was dry and had the particular smell of something that had been stored in a cool place for a long time. The brass clasp was tarnished but intact. There was no name on the cover and no writing visible on the spine.

"Where did it come from?" Marcus asked.

"An estate clearance," Kamau said. "A house in Lavington. The family were clearing out the study of an elderly relative who had passed. They brought me six boxes of books and this was at the bottom of one of them, wrapped in brown paper."

Marcus turned the diary over. On the back cover, very faint, pressed into the leather rather than written on it, was what appeared to be a maker's mark. He held it up to the light from the window and looked at it the way he looked at things that were trying to tell him something without quite saying it.

The mark showed a small crown above two initials and below them a date: 1962.

"Nineteen sixty-two," Marcus said. "The year before independence."

He looked at the clasp again. It was a standard small diary lock of the period, the kind that was produced in large quantities for personal diaries and notebooks throughout the nineteen fifties and sixties. The key would have been tiny, flat, almost certainly lost decades ago.

"May I?" he said, and Kamau produced a small penknife from his pocket, which Marcus did not use on the lock but on the hinge of the clasp, which was on the outside of the cover and attached with two small screws that had been painted over but were still, after sixty years, turnable.

The clasp swung free. The diary opened.

Inside, in a small neat hand that covered every page from the first to the last, was a record of a single year. The entries began in January 1962 and ended in December of the same year, and they described in precise and affectionate detail the life of a woman named Dorothy who had lived in Nairobi all her adult life and had decided, in her sixty-third year, to write down everything she noticed about the city she loved before it changed, as she could see it was about to change, into something new.

She had written about the markets and the gardens and the light at different times of year. She had written about her neighbours and her garden and the birds she watched from her window every morning. She had written about the small ceremonies of daily life with the attention of someone who understands that ordinary things are the ones worth recording.

The last entry, dated the twenty-eighth of December, read: Another year done. The city is ready for what comes next. So, I think, am I.

Marcus read this aloud to Kamau, who was quiet for a moment.

"She locked it," Kamau said finally. "She wrote all of that and then she locked it."

"Yes," Marcus said. "I think she locked it for herself, not for anyone else. The locking was the full stop. The way of saying this is finished and complete and does not need to be reopened."

He looked at the open diary in his hands. "She did not expect it to end up in a bookshop."

Kamau took the diary and read the last entry himself. Then he read the first entry, which described a Tuesday morning in January with a particular quality of light that made the jacaranda trees look as though they were made of something other than ordinary wood and flowers.

He put a new card beside it that afternoon: Locked diary, now opened. Nairobi, 1962. One year. Not for sale.

The keys turned up on the same morning, which was what made it interesting.

The first was found by a woman named Rosa at the reception desk of the Pelican Guest House in Stone Town, Zanzibar, where she worked the early shift. It was sitting on the desk when she arrived at six thirty, as though someone had put it there deliberately, which seemed unlikely given that the door had been locked all night.

The second was found by a harbour master named Mr Juma when he opened the small office at the end of the pier at seven o'clock. It was on his desk, in the centre, which was also unlikely given that Mr Juma was quite certain he had locked the office the previous evening.

The third was found by the caretaker of the old customs house, a quiet man named Tariq, when he arrived to open up at half past seven. It was on the floor just inside the door, which again presented the problem of a locked room and an unexplained key.

All three keys were identical. Heavy, old-fashioned, brass, with a simple oval bow and a long shaft. The kind of key that belongs to an old lock, the kind of lock that belongs to an old building.

Marcus Briggs Gold heard about the keys from Rosa, who mentioned them when he came down for breakfast. He was staying at the Pelican for four days, as he liked Stone Town and always found something worth his attention when he was there. He asked to see the key and Rosa placed it on the breakfast table beside his coffee.

He turned it over in his hands. It was genuinely old, worn smooth in the places where many hands had held it over many years. The shaft had a simple pattern of cuts, nothing complicated, the kind of key that had been made by a locksmith working quickly for a practical purpose rather than an ornamental one.

"Where are the other two?" he asked.

Rosa made some telephone calls. By nine o'clock Marcus was sitting in Mr Juma's harbour office with all three keys on the desk in front of him and Rosa and Mr Juma and Tariq standing around looking at them with the collective puzzlement of people who have been presented with something that does not yet make sense.

Marcus lined the keys up carefully. They were identical in every respect except one. The first, Rosa's key, had a small mark on the bow, a letter or possibly a number, worn almost smooth. The second, Mr Juma's, had no mark at all. The third, Tariq's, had a similar mark in a different position on the bow, equally worn.

"These are old keys," Marcus said, "but they are not the same age as each other. Look at the wear on the shafts. Rosa's key has been used considerably more than the other two. Mr Juma's has barely been used at all."

He looked at Tariq. "The customs house is the oldest of the three buildings. How long has it been a customs house?"

Tariq thought. "It was built in the eighteen eighties. It has always been in some kind of official use since then."

Marcus nodded. He picked up the least worn key, Mr Juma's. "The harbour office. When was the current building put up?"

"Nineteen sixty something," Mr Juma said. "It replaced an older structure."

"And the Pelican?"

Rosa said the building was late nineteenth century but had been a guest house only since the nineteen fifties.

Marcus set the three keys in a new order, most worn to least. "I think these keys all belong to the same lock," he said, "or rather to locks that were all made from the same original pattern at different times. Stone Town has been rebuilding and repurposing its old buildings for a hundred and fifty years. When a building changed hands or function, new keys were sometimes cut from an existing one rather than changing the lock entirely. It was cheaper and simpler."

He looked at the marks on two of the keys. "These are batch marks. A locksmith's notation. The same locksmith, or the same workshop, made keys for all three buildings at different points in history, each time copying the same original pattern."

"But how did they get onto our desks?" Rosa asked.

Marcus smiled. "That," he said, "is a different question entirely, and probably a more interesting one."

It turned out that the answer was a retired locksmith named Mr Haroun, who was eighty-three years old and had spent the previous day visiting the buildings where he had worked as a young man. He had kept three spare keys as mementos for sixty years and had decided, on the occasion of his eighty-third birthday, to return them to the places they belonged. He had slipped them through letterboxes and under doors early in the morning before anyone arrived, because he was an early riser and also because he had thought it might be a nice surprise.

Rosa tracked him down through a cousin who knew his family. Mr Haroun came to the harbour office that afternoon and drank tea with all of them and talked for two hours about the buildings of Stone Town and the locks he had made and the keys he had cut over a working life of forty years. He remembered every building and every lock with the clarity that people sometimes keep for the work they loved best.

The Tinner's Arms in Zennor had a painting above the fireplace that had been there since before anyone in the village could remember. It showed a coastal scene, a cliff above a sea of deep green, with a small white cottage in the middle distance and what appeared to be a boat far out on the water.

It was a perfectly pleasant painting and nobody paid it much attention, which is why it took several weeks before anyone noticed that it was different at lunchtime than it was in the evening.

The landlady, a sensible woman named Janet who had run the pub for eighteen years, was the first to put it into words. She had been collecting glasses from the table nearest the fireplace on a Tuesday lunchtime when she looked up at the painting and thought something was different about it. She could not say what exactly. Just different.

She mentioned it to her husband, who said she was imagining things. She mentioned it to her regular customers, who were divided between those who said she was imagining things and those who said they had noticed exactly the same and were glad someone had finally said something.

The painting, it seemed, looked different at noon than it did in the evening. Something about the cottage. Or possibly the boat. Nobody could agree on quite what it was.

Marcus Briggs Gold was staying at the guest house at the end of the lane that week, as he did occasionally when he was walking the coastal path. He came into the Tinner's Arms for lunch on a Wednesday and Janet, who was not the sort of person to let a puzzle sit unsolved, told him about the painting before he had finished ordering.

He looked at the painting for a moment. Then he looked at the windows of the pub, which faced south and let in a good amount of midday light. Then he looked at the fireplace below the painting, which was not lit in September but was deep and dark.

"Has the painting always been above the fireplace?" he asked.

"As long as I have been here," Janet said. "Eighteen years."

"And the fireplace, is it used in winter?"

"Every night from October through to April."

Marcus looked at the painting again with the steady attention he brought to things that appeared to behave differently depending on when you looked at them.

"At noon," he said, "the light comes through the south windows directly and falls on the painting from the front. In the evening, the fire is lit below it and the light comes from beneath, at a different angle entirely."

He pointed to the cottage in the middle of the painting.

"The artist used impasto technique here, do you see? The paint is applied thickly, in ridges. When the light comes from the front those ridges are invisible, they simply reflect the light evenly. But when the light comes from below, at an angle, the ridges cast tiny shadows and the whole texture of the painting changes. The cottage appears darker. The boat on the water catches more light. The cliff looks steeper."

Janet looked at the painting. Then she looked at the south-facing windows. Then she looked at the dark fireplace below.

"It is the same painting," she said slowly. "It just shows you different things depending on where the light is coming from."

"Yes," said Marcus. "Which is true of rather a lot of things, when you think about it."

Janet thought about it while she pulled his pint. She had lived with that painting for eighteen years and had never once thought to wonder about the technique of it, only whether it looked right above the fireplace, which it did. Now she found herself wanting to come in at different times of day and look at it, to see what else it might show her.

That evening she stood in front of it with the fire lit for the first time that autumn, the light coming up from below in the old way, and watched the cottage grow darker and the little boat catch the glow, and thought that eighteen years was sometimes not quite long enough to finish learning about a thing you saw every day.

The old fishing dock at Elmina had been there longer than anyone could reliably remember, and the wooden posts at the waterline had been replaced so many times over the centuries that the current ones were considered almost new, having been set in 1987.

It was on one of these posts that a boy named Kofi made his discovery on a Saturday morning in early October.

Kofi was eleven years old and had the particular kind of curiosity that leads a person to look at things more closely than other people bother to. He had been sitting on the dock wall waiting for his grandfather's boat to come in when he noticed that the nearest post, just at eye level from where he was sitting, had markings scratched into the wood. Not random scratches. Deliberate lines, carefully made, forming what looked very much like a small map.

There were lines that might be paths or streets, a shape that might be a building, and in one corner what appeared to be a simple cross, the kind that might mark a location.

Kofi showed his grandfather when the boat came in. His grandfather, a man named Emmanuel who had been fishing out of Elmina for fifty years, looked at the markings with great interest and said he had not noticed them before, which surprised him because he used that post every day to tie up.

Marcus Briggs Gold was on the dock that morning sketching the fort, which he did every time he visited Elmina because the light on the old walls changed enough each visit to make it worth drawing again. He came over when he saw Kofi and Emmanuel studying the post with such attention.

He looked at the markings for a long time. He looked at them from different angles. He looked at the cross in the corner, which was slightly deeper than the other lines as though made with more intention.

"Kofi," he said, "when you first saw these, were you sitting on the wall or standing on the dock?"

"Sitting," Kofi said. "They were right at my eye level."

Marcus nodded. "And you said they looked like a map. What made you think that?"

"The lines go in the right directions. This one runs along and this one turns. Like the street behind the dock. And this shape here is like the old warehouse."

Marcus looked at the shape Kofi was pointing to. Then he turned and looked at the street behind the dock, and the old warehouse at the corner, and the lines of the alleyways between the buildings.

"You are right," he said. "It is the street. And the cross marks a building." He pointed. "That one, I think. The blue one with the green shutters."

They walked to the building, which turned out to be a small workshop belonging to a carpenter who had worked in the same spot for forty years. His name was Mr Asante and he was not at all surprised to see them.

The markings, he explained with great cheerfulness, were his own work. He had made them thirty years ago when he was a young man and had just set up his workshop. He had wanted a way to direct customers from the dock to his door, since many of them arrived by boat and did not know the town. He had scratched a simple map into the dock post at the height where a seated person on the dock wall would see it most easily.

"Did it work?" Emmanuel asked.

"For about ten years," Mr Asante said. "Then I put up a proper sign and forgot about the map entirely. I had not thought about it in twenty years until just now."

He looked at Kofi with the appreciation that older people sometimes show for younger ones who notice things that have been overlooked for a long time.

"You have a good eye," he said. "That is a useful thing to have in this world."

Kofi, who had been hoping for something rather more dramatic, decided on reflection that discovering a thirty year old carpenter's advertisement was actually quite a good story to tell at school on Monday. Emmanuel tied up the boat and went to buy fish for lunch. Mr Asante made them all tea in his workshop, which smelled of fresh wood and linseed oil, and showed Kofi how he made the joints in a chair without using any nails at all.

The letter arrived at the wrong address on a Wednesday morning, which was not unusual in the older parts of Dubai where the streets had names that sounded similar and the building numbers followed a logic that only the postmen fully understood.

What was unusual was that the letter had no stamp, no postmark, and no return address. It had simply appeared in the letterbox of a ground floor apartment on Al Fahidi Street, addressed in careful handwriting to a Mr Hakim Mansouri, who had not lived at that address for eleven years.

The current resident was a young woman called Nadia, who worked as a translator and had a habit of noticing details that other people walked past. She noticed, for instance, that the envelope was made of thick cream paper of the kind that is expensive enough to be kept for important occasions. She noticed that the ink was blue-black and the handwriting was precise and unhurried, the writing of someone who had taken their time. She noticed that the letter was sealed but that the seal had been made with a small wax stamp, the impression of which showed a geometric pattern she did not recognise.

She also noticed that the letter smelled very faintly of cedar.

Nadia did not open the letter. Instead she took it to the cultural centre at the end of the street, where she knew that a British gentleman named Marcus Briggs Gold had been spending his mornings for the past week, working through the centre's archive of historical trade documents and drinking the excellent coffee they served in small cups at ten o'clock.

Marcus looked at the envelope for a long moment. He turned it over. He held it up to the light from the window. Then he set it on the table and looked at Nadia.

"You said you have lived in this apartment for how long?"

"Four years," she said.

"And before you, who lived there?"

"A family. The Rahimis. They were there for about three years I think."

"And the building itself, how old is it?"

Nadia thought. "It was renovated about eight years ago. Before that I am not sure. It is one of the older buildings in the district."

Marcus nodded. He picked up the envelope again and looked at the wax seal with the attention he gave to things that were trying to tell him something.

"The cedar smell," he said. "Cedar is used in this region to line storage boxes and chests. Old ones, kept in cool places. This letter has been stored for some time."

He looked at the address again.

"Mr Hakim Mansouri lived at this address eleven years ago. The letter has no postmark, which means it was delivered by hand. It has expensive paper and a wax seal, which means it was written for a significant occasion. And it smells of cedar, which means it has been in storage."

He paused.

"Someone wrote this letter a long time ago, kept it, and has only now decided to deliver it. The question is not who sent it to the wrong address. The question is whether they sent it to the right address after all."

Nadia looked at the envelope. "You think they knew Mr Mansouri no longer lives there?"

"I think," Marcus said carefully, "that someone who takes the trouble to write on expensive paper with a wax seal and keep a letter for eleven years and then deliver it by hand is not the kind of person who makes careless mistakes about addresses."

He suggested they take the letter to the building's caretaker, an elderly man named Mr Saleh who had looked after the building for thirty years and knew its history better than anyone.

Mr Saleh looked at the envelope and his face changed in the way that faces change when something long expected has finally arrived.

The letter, he explained, had been written by Mr Mansouri himself, before he moved away. He had given it to Mr Saleh with instructions that it be placed in the letterbox of his old apartment on the eleventh anniversary of his departure. He had wanted whoever lived there to find it, a small gift for a stranger, a piece of the history of the rooms they were living in.

Mr Saleh had simply got the Wednesday wrong. He had delivered it a day early.

Inside, when Nadia opened it with Mr Saleh's blessing, was a two page letter describing the apartment as it had been when Mr Mansouri lived there, the light at different times of day, the sounds from the street, the way the rooms felt in summer and in winter. It ended with the hope that whoever read it was happy there, and that the rooms were treating them as kindly as they had treated him.