Ornate owl tattoo design

You will think I have finally lost my wits, but I must tell someone before Mother sells the lot. The new lodger in number seven left on Tuesday without paying and without his trunk. In its place he left a drawing pinned to the washstand mirror: an owl, drawn in brown ink so fine it looks like lace, its wings curling up into scrolls like the shells we used to gather at Filey. Its eyes are round and faintly disapproving, as if someone had woken it early.

Mother says the man was a travelling draughtsman who took rooms by the week and paid in pencil sketches. She says the drawing is worth nothing. I am not so sure. The owl's tail runs down the page and off the edge, sweeping towards the bottom left corner, and when I held the paper to the lamp I saw the feathers were not feathers at all. They were tiny waves, each folding inside the next, all the way down to the sea.

Last night the wind kept me awake. I went up to number seven with a candle, meaning only to fetch the drawing for the rubbish, and found the window open and the curtains breathing. On the cracked glass someone had left a ring of spirals in condensation, and they shone for a moment before they went to nothing.

I have kept the owl. It is pinned above my bed where I can see its eyes. Come at Whitsun and tell me I am being silly.

Love, Edie