Printed on embossed card, as if for a wedding. It specifies a hotel, in a nearby town, and a time. But not the event or the sender.
And the date is twenty years ahead.
You examine the envelope. No return address. You peer inside, poking into the corners in case the key to the puzzle is hiding in a crease or a fold. Nothing.
You try the internet; Google finds the place immediately. It looks normal, an old country house with columns beside a grand entrance, and weather-worn statues standing on fake battlements. Hotel and conference centre, swimming pool for guests.
They should know: you call, feeling foolish. Is there a booking? The girl on reception must think you are drunk, or mad. No, sir, we don’t have reservations more than two years away.
For no good reason, you put the details in your phone.
Time passes, but you faithfully carry your diary through many upgrades, and the event silently follows you.
Until, one day, you are looking at your schedule six months later, and there it is. Your curiosity is reawakened and you search online again. The hotel is closed now, and standing empty. There are no more clues.
The day arrives. Will you go, or not? Two o’clock, it says. It’s an hour’s journey: at ten to one, you depart, still uncommitted. At least you will have the option of being there. Not that you’ve decided to go.
You arrive in the deserted car park. The traffic was heavy; it’s nearly two, there is no time to think. You leave your car and head for the door. The clock in the tower above strikes the hour, and you glance up to see the statue, falling.