Monson removed himself from the window and flopped onto the bed, stretching his arms and legs, tightening the muscles as much as he could. He winced as he felt the strain of scarred skin that covered a large part of his body.

  “One more reminder of what I can’t remember.” Monson gritted his teeth, determined to finish his stretching.

  Monson slid his hands toward the space between his headboard and mattress, hoping to find an edge or lip he could grab. There wasn’t one; the headboard seemed to continue all the way down to the floor. Annoyed at being unable to accomplish his stretch, Monson moved his fingers farther down the headboard. He stopped when his hands slid over a strange indention. Monson’s fingers lingered. To the touch, it didn’t feel like it was part of the original design; it felt too random and rough. He struggled, curious why there would be such distinct marks on a well-crafted hardwood bed frame.

  Could the bed be from a used furniture store? Monson stifled a laugh but realized that he didn’t need to; he was the only one privy to the thought. What a ridiculous thought. There was no way that could be. All the same, Monson did his best to envision Dean Dayton shopping at a Liquidation World or Goodwill. The thought made Monson giggle. He continued running his fingers over the indentations. He realized that the markings ran at least part of the length of the bottom portion of the bed, were finely cut despite their out-of-place location, and fairly deep.

  Ahh, screw this, Monson thought, extracting his arm from the space between the bed and the headboard. He slid with a dull thump off the side of the bed and picked up the mattress, intending to tear it off. The mattress was heavier than he had expected. He strained, and with a final thrust, the mattress slid partially to the side and exposed a heart with a set of initials chiseled into the wood.

  Monson laughed aloud. How anticlimactic—all that curious excitement for some cheesy declaration of puppy love. Annoyance kicked in. Monson took a closer look at the initials: G.D.P. & M.P. He made a mental note to make fun of whoever wrote that and then grabbed the mattress to heave it back into position.

  “Heavy little sucker, aren’t you?”

  Monson struggled for a few moments more and finally shoved the mattress in place. Unfortunately, he wasn’t paying attention to his footing. He fell, kicking the frame of the bed just hard enough to move it slightly. He hit the ground with a solid thump and slid lightly across the floor to a stop just as a second thump broke the silence.

  Monson lay on the ground, panting.

  Brilliant, Grey, just brilliant. It was then that the sound finally registered. What was that second thump?

  Monson crawled and forced his way under the side of his bed to investigate. He pulled out a small metal box.

  The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  The container appeared totally unremarkable. Tarnished and faded, probably from many years of use, it appeared to be shut tightly.

  Annoyed, Monson almost tossed the small tin. Honestly, why on earth would this be wedged up behind his bed? He couldn’t think of anything more stupid. There was no reason for it to be there unless… someone was trying to hide it. Monson paused and looked at the container. This could be something private and important forgotten by the previous owner.

  Then again, whoever it was had left it. In that case, it couldn’t be that important, especially in a place that appeared to be more for convenience than hiding.

  Monson fingered the lid of the box. There couldn’t be any harm in just looking, could there? He decided not, and slowly wedged the lid off the container.

  Paper and envelopes of every shape, size, and color spilled out, along with accumulated filth. How long had this thing been in here to collect this much dust? A sweet scent permeated the air as remnants of perfume washed over him. A girl wrote these. The handwriting—what could be seen of it—was small and full of loops, too feminine to be a boy’s. Monson grabbed one of the pages and opened it. He read the title, written in the same embellished handwriting.

  The Queen’s Chronicle – Conquering the Ridge

  by M.P.

  She followed a path of her own choosing.

  One that scaled the height of her own mountain.

  A journey started with a voice, which said:

  Come, find your other self.

  Long was the quest along the winding trail

  Deep were the rivers she traversed

  Dark were the woods she explored.

  Difficult were the keepers who confounded her.

  She withstood with the allure of the natural man

  She calmed the core of the enlightened soul

  She found the secret of the translated other self

  Only to lose herself to the worlds.

  The path, the war, still wages on.

  Red for passion and anger’s heat

  Blue for docile souls that are ever upbeat

  Yellow for freedom; the expressive self

  Green for the solid being; the foundation for all else.

  A woman followed a path of her own choosing

  One that scaled the height of her own mountain

  She started her journey with a single step

  And found the other’s gate enigma at its peak.

  Monson stopped reading, attempting to understand. What in the world is this? He picked up more of the papers; it went on for at least two more pages. If this was a love letter, it didn’t seem like a very good one. What happened to “How do I love thee? Let me count the ways”?

  As Monson replaced the poem and properly stacked the mismatched groups of paper, a picture caught his eye. He pulled it from the stack. It was a painting—an amazing one.

  Vibrant colors of a sunset highlighted a castle like no other. Large, with airy, open architecture, the fortress sat on a pair of cumulus clouds suspended hundreds—maybe thousands—of feet in the air. In the distance, four peaks encircled a lush green valley. The colors were bold and beautiful. Monson couldn’t take his eyes off it. He smiled as he pictured a place like this castle on a cloud. He flipped the painting over, searching for a signature, and found the same insignia as on the poem: M.P. He made a mental note—figure out who M.P. was.

  Monson returned the papers to the container, including the poem, but kept the picture out. He slid the tin back under his bed. He lay down, staring at the image and recounting the events of the day. Day… bah! It wasn’t even three o’clock yet! He sighed as exhaustion crept over him. Between almost being clubbed by Artorius, knocking the crap out of one of the prettiest girls he had ever seen, the weird gray stone hanging around his neck, and—oh yes—the strange out-of-body experience when Dean Dayton called his name, Monson felt he had experienced enough for one day. He hoped this wasn’t going to be a daily thing.