Martin Leclair by Artem Novosolov

The café on Maple Street was quiet

when Sandra arrived. Zoe was already waiting at a small corner table, a notebook in front of her, a half-empty cup of coffee beside it. Sandra slid into the seat opposite her and offered a polite smile. "I hope this place is better for a conversation," Zoe said, closing her notebook for now. Sandra chuckled. "Anything is better than Samuel’s so-called ‘practice sessions.’ So, what do you want to know?" Before Zoe could answer, Sandra’s phone buzzed. She glanced at the screen. A message from Daniel: Mom, Snoop’s acting weird. Keeps scratching at the basement door. Thought you should know. A shiver ran down Sandra’s spine. Snoop was an old dog, but he had never acted strangely before. She made a mental note to check when she got home and turned back to Zoe. "Sorry, you were saying?" Zoe hesitated but then asked, "Have you ever written about real-life mysteries?" Her eyes sparkled with curiosity. Sandra raised an eyebrow. "Not really. I write fiction, but my stories are completely made up. Why?" Zoe took a slow sip of coffee. "Because I think you might be in one now." Sandra frowned. "What do you mean?" Zoe leaned in. "A few weeks ago, I started investigating a missing person—Martin Leclair. He vanished five years ago. His last known location? The house that belonged to the family who lived there before you moved in." Sandra’s fingers tightened around her cup. "That’s... unsettling. But what does that have to do with me?" "Maybe nothing," Zoe admitted. "Or maybe everything. What if Snoop’s instincts are telling you something? Maybe there's something hidden in your basement." Sandra forced a laugh. "Come on, that’s absurd. It’s just an old house." "Maybe. But would you check? Just in case?" Sandra hesitated. The idea was ridiculous, but a part of her—the writer part—was intrigued. "Fine," she said finally. "I’ll check. And if I find nothing, you owe me another coffee."

That evening, Sandra returned home, her thoughts tangled. Daniel was sitting on the couch, Snoop at his feet. "He’s still at it," Daniel said, nodding toward the basement door. "I even let him down there, but he just keeps scratching the same spot." Sandra exhaled. "Alright, let’s see what this is about." Grabbing a flashlight, she descended the creaky stairs, Snoop trotting behind her. The basement smelled of dust and damp wood. She scanned the room, everything appearing normal—until she noticed the corner where Snoop was scratching. Taking a deep breath, she moved aside an old shelving unit, revealing a loose wooden panel. Her pulse quickened. Carefully, she pried it open. Inside was a small metal box, tarnished with age. She lifted the lid. Inside, there were old photographs, letters, and a leather-bound journal. The first page was signed Martin Leclair. Sandra’s breath caught in her throat. What had she just uncovered? From the top of the stairs, Daniel called down, "Mom? Everything okay?" Sandra stared at the journal, her mind racing. "I don’t know yet," she murmured. "But I think we’re about to find out."