She walked through the mansion, passing people taking out furniture, carefully covered, and being placed gently in a long line of moving trucks.
Last plush step on the curved staircase, not touching the smooth wood railing with her hand, her foot gently placed on the second floor.
People were hovering around, looking at the empty floors and walls. Slowly swiveling their heels on the polished floors, they watched her reach the upstairs landing. Waiting for her direction, she pretended they were not there.
As if ghosts were removing the face of a painting, like peeling a thin layer of glue from the palm of one’s hand, she turned in disgust. Like see-through skin that they tossed to the side, as if throwing away someone’s soul. The search for his wealth continued as they destroyed painting after painting.
The master of the house had died just the night before, and his family of leaches wanted to find the most prized possession. His will. They had hired her to dismantle the premises, not stopping till the treasure was found.
Looking around at the empty halls and bleak rooms and bare windows, she noticed the clock. Very old and rather plain. Small compared to all the other clocks. Not centered, easy to reach, and had at one time had pictures around it. Full of it’s own beauty, as carved on it was a handful of roses. But, only left on the wall to tell his greedy family the time, as it chimed that their lunch would be arriving. It resonated through the dreary place, searching for someone who cared.
As everyone left for the dining room, to the only table left for spreading out food, she remained by the clock. Slowly running her hand over the wood, lovingly appreciating the intricate rose design, her finger caught on the slightest of a rose. The rose was raised just slightly more than the others and upon pushing it, a small door opened under the face. Reaching inside, she saw stacks of paper. She had found their goldmine. She would watch as their horrid dark eyes searched over the words, grabbing at the money listed by their names, barely dismissing her. They would pay her for her work and send her on her way.
Driving down the long drive, she felt the papers burning in her pocket. To her, the treasure was the papers she had kept.
Arriving home, she spread them on the floor as the sun’s mid-afternoon rays touched the gentle words. Letters written in love from this man to his wife. Letters those greedy bastards would have discarded as being worthless.
After her death, he kept writing to her. He kept her alive as his pen kept moving. Reminiscing of seeing her for the first time. Her beauty on the outside, her gentle heart on the inside.
When he became ill, he moved their love letters and the will to the only place he knew none of them would look.
Smiling, she gathered the letters in her arms. They had the money, she had the treasure.