A wailing gale ran errands as nature was slowly harnessing its eccentric torrent. They found Mr. Hansen an easy prey, helpless, clueless yet restless. Oddly enough, the man shortened and slowed his steps in a rhythmic pattern to Mr. Hansen’s momentary delight which took little time to shift to horror and bewilderment. His home was nearing fast. Surely this man cannot be approaching his home? That would be too much even for such a queer turn of events.
But dreads and anticipations again took a back seat as the man calmly walked past the tiny house with oak doors and a little garden, a lonely widower’s muse. Mr. Hansen was never a curious man. He believed curiosity was the mother of destruction. He loved his little world of few neighbours and fewer headaches, which is why Mr. Hansen was having a particular trouble with this man. For once, Mr. Hansen was curious about a person without a face. And he was following him religiously.
Mr. Hansen’s disturbingly distracting dilemmas met a premature end as the man came to a sudden halt at a distance. Good god! Time is a fickle friend. They had arrived at the town border. Mr. Hansen was surprised that he had walked a distance within a few halves of hours which he wouldn’t have done in quite a few weeks of afternoon walks. Oh, procrastination, thou evil! Mr. Hansen rubbed his glasses clumsily with his thumbs and put them on to get a better vista of what was awaiting him along this winding path of events.
The vista was terrific, may be terrifying too. The man was standing before a colossal mansion with Victorian architecture standing alone like some prehistoric animal left behind with urban haste. The long, curved slants of the entrance gate met at two modestly high pillars with pointed ends. Interestingly, the pointy ends were of metal finish and that looked like a recent addition. He needed to be discreet now. Crouching behind a magnolia bush, Mr. Hansen looked closely again. Even though his body twitched a little protesting against childish eccentricities and voyeuristic nuisances, he couldn’t help but notice a portly man was waiting in front of the gate on the other side of it. The gate opened. The possibility of that person being a servant was next to obvious. Mr. Hansen understood that the possibility of regaining the possession of his precious was becoming thinner, as once the gate was closed, he was left with no option but to return home with a vain and foolish attempt that would only strengthen his singular belief - Curiosity is the mother of destruction.
But the man who was without face all these time lowered his umbrella as his servant had held his own over his head and turned towards the magnolia bush. He was looking at it intensely. Mr. Hansen held his breath nervously. He surely didn’t notice him? He was keeping a more than safe distance. No, he didn’t. The man turned again and then walked briskly along the pebbled zigzags towards his home, palace rather. The Servant took a few seconds to look around before closing the gate in a carefully slow manner and walked away in pursuit of his master. Mr. Hansen, although remained cynical of it, felt as if the servant took an extra second to look in the direction of the magnolia bush.
On another day, he would have walked away with dejection and defeat without taking another step ahead. On another day, Mr. Hansen would not have gone out for an evening walk. But today was not another day. He collected himself and walked hurriedly towards the gate for one final clue. On the right side of the entrance column, a steel plaque had these words Curved-“Maison de Sharpe, 1867.” Sharpe, it rings a bell, he thought harder. Lost in thoughts, Mr. Hansen looked at the gates now. His body went numb, his eyes wide, his legs stoned to ground.
The gate was not locked. It was still open.
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