moving.

Her eyes were adjusting to the dark and besides, what was the worst that could
happen? Just as she began to pick her way forward, she noticed something in the distance,
a shape at the side of the road. She kept walking a?ecting an air of quiet confidence that
felt more like grim determination. It was so dark and the figure on the road was dark, too. In
fact, it looked like someone wearing a hooded cloak. She tried not to think of every horror
movie she had ever seen.

Her instincts told her to run, but she held her nerve.

Besides, running in the dark wasn't a great option. It's probably nothing, just shadows, she
told herself.

All hopes that she was seeing things were dashed as she drew closer. It was a black figure
standing by a stone wall and it was very much alive and moving. She was holding her
breath, perhaps even saying a short prayer, when she finally reached him, or her, or it. A
large head with long ears and a creamy white nose came into view, braying for all its worth.
The noise almost finished Sarah o?, as she grabbed her chest and the briar behind her for
support.

Jesus H Christ' she roared at the donkey who seemed equally put out by her presence. 'You
almost gave me a heart attack, you know that!' she told him, relieved. A large glassy eye
turned towards her and she stroked his furry neck What are you doing out here?' she asked,
quickly followed by Why am I talking to a donkey?' It was comforting, in some strange way.
He made her feel les alone. Less silly for being here in the first place.

As if to say their meeting was over, the donkey slowly turned and shu?led along to only he
knew where. Bye then!' she called after him, her heartbeat finally restored to some normal
rhythm. It felt oddly satisfying to be frightened by something real, instead of the fears inside
her own head.

She leaned her weight against the wall behind her so she could catch her breath. Like a
slow avalanche, the stones beneath her started to shift and crumble until she found herself
flat on her behind in the field.

'Great! Just great, she said, wondering what else could go wrong. A light flurry of snow
began to fall and spiral around her. 'Happy Christmas, she whispered to herself.

The winter moon began to pull the clouds from her face and nestled them around her, like
the tresses of a Pre-Raphaelite muse. The earth was suddenly illuminated and in the
sodden grass beside her she spied a small, circular thing. A nest, cleverly disguised with
dead leaves. Tentatively, she reached out and gently picked it up. An empty nest; beautifully
intricate, made with such care and now cast aside. The e?ects of the whisky seemed to
evaporate all at once. The air became still as she cradled the little home of twigs, moss and
cobwebs in her hands. A symbol of everything she'd lost. Something within her threatened
to break. Looking up, she saw the branches of a large tree reaching overhead. As she
looked closer, the moonlight picked out a dark shadow on the rough and twisted bark.

The night air was twitching with an energy that was intoxicating; unpredictable even. Her
life in New York had been reduced to a set of rules and habits that she thought would keep
her safe, or sane at least. Yet sometimes, holding on so tightly to a routine was like clinging
to a life raft, awaiting rescue. There was never an end or a point when she could say, I's
okay; I'm safe! In Thornwood, there were no such rules.

The grass was long and wet underfoot as she got to her feet and made her way over to the
tree. She could see it clearly now: a large hollow in the trunk. She had the idea of burying
the nest inside the hollow. It seemed like the right thing to do. Yet at that moment, with the
nest in one hand and the bottle of whisky in the other, she let her gut make the decision. If
she had to bury something, let it be the drink. When the bottle hit the ground inside the
tree, it made a loud clank, rather than the soft thud she had been expecting. It had hit
something that wasn't wood. It sounded like tin, which could have been an empty can of
beer, but the sound was deeper than that. Her curiosity soon got the better of her.

Five minutes later, Sarah was on her knees and up to her armpit in tree trunk. With her
cheek pressed against the rough bark, she had fished out three polystyrene cups, an empty
packet of cigarettes and two Coke cans. She could just feel the edges of a square tin box,
but her fingertips struggled to lift it. It was wedged in and so she had to search for some
rudimentary equipment to help her lever it and Her nostrils were filled with the smell of
damp earth and her fingers were almost numb at the tips. Feeling on the wtound around
her, she found part of a branch and broke sup long piece with a sharp endit of a eranhich
sounder espiously like Meghan s) kept telling her to give up.

Bu home and set a fire so she could stave o? pneumonia.

But her inguisitiveness forced her on. Who knew what she would find? Maybe it would be
something trivial, but there was a chance it could be something ... meaningful. Perhaps her
imagination was running wild, but what if finding the nest was a sign? That she was meant
to find whatever was hidden inside this gnarled old tree. Feeling the side of the box, she dug
the stick into position and levered it as much as she could in the small space, praying it
wouldn't break.

There was a slight give and then the triumphant sound of the tin breaking free from its hold.
'Yes!' she said, congratulating her own tenacity. She was able to manoeuvre the box onto its
side with her fingertips, so she could get a good grasp of it. It was a snug fit and she had to
wiggle it up and down, back and forth, to get it out.

Finally, she freed the box from the tree and held it firmly in her hands. She shook it lightly
and sensed that there was something inside. Fighting every urge to open it there and then,
she wedged it under her arm and started back for the cottage, with the moonlight guiding
her way.

After a lengthy negotiation with the half door, she set her treasures down on the wooden
dresser that was already heaving with cups and plates of varying colours and sizes.

Once she had built a small but functioning fire with the logs that Mr Sweeney's son had left
stacked in a woven basket by the hearth, she reached for the box. It was remarkably clean,
apart from a general green tinge to its edges. The hollow in the tree had preserved it very
well, but then again, Sarah had no idea how long it had been there. There was a tartan
design on the front, but no writing or brand name. Sitting on the rug in front of the fire, she
pulled hard on the lid and when it gave, her eyes took a moment to figure out what she was
looking at. It appeared to be a piece of lace, but there was something red showing through.
She carefully lifted it out and, as she did, the lace unravelled to reveal a torn and sorry-
looking remnant of what might have been a beautiful garment made of golden thread.
Wrapped inside was a book and, resting on top of that, a cream envelope with a navy trim.
She opened that first and was amazed to find a timeworn ticket for a transatlantic journey
from Queenstown to New York with the Cunard Line shipping company. She searched the
document for a date.

The year was 1911. She could hardly believe what she was seeing. As she turned it over and
over in her hands, her mind reeled with questions, the foremost being: why hadn't the ticket
been used? Laying the ticket on the rug beside her, she turned her attention to the red
leather book. Would she find the answers inside? On opening the cover, she read the
sweeping handwriting: