Martin opened his eyes the next morning, confused at the unusual - but not unpleasant - warmth. And then he remembered and smiled. It was strange, to him, to be smiling as he fully woke up. He couldn't remember it ever happening since he had moved into the dismal apartment. He checked his watch and saw that it was Saturday. Did he have a job today? No, he didn't think so. His smile grew a little; a day off. That hadn't happened in quite a while either. But the grin disappeared as quickly as it had come - he didn't have anything to do today. Nothing to keep away the dark thoughts, nothing to stave off the lonliness, and no money to provide any kind of short respite from his misery.
Maybe he could try communicating with the Note-Leaver. Most of the students would be home until later tonight, when they would go out partying. He found a scrap of paper, a pen and some tape. What should he say? What words could he possibly find to convey how touched he was that someone would actually go to such trouble on his behalf, and how grateful he was that they had done so? He decided that a thank you, even such a humble one as his tired brain could provide, would make a good start.
Thank you for the everything. It was unbelievably kind of you. I would prefer to thank you in person, though. I've a day off today, and no plans. Could we meet? Since he didn't know who had been leaving the notes, he just stuck the white piece of paper to his own door, hoping that the Note-Leaver might happen to see it.
It was cold in the attic, and Martin could see the rain pounding on the single window. He climbed back into bed, savouring the warmth that flooded back into him.
He didn't realize he had fallen back asleep until he heard the gentle knocking on his door. He hurried to answer it, hoping it would be the mysterious Note-Leaver. Instead, he opened the door to find a box by his feet with a pink sticky-note on top. He was disappointed that the person hadn't wanted to meet him, but he took the box inside his room; he thought he could spy some kind of aeroplane on the front. As he was looking at the box, he missed the girl's head poking out from a room down the hall. She had kind brown eyes that watched as Martin took the box into his room. She grinned and shut her door as softly as she could.
Martin, putting the box on his desk, saw that it contained a model Sopwith Camel aeroplane which could be built and then painted. The note on the top read:
Sorry, can't - studying for finals. Perhaps after exams? Realize it's for kids - thought it might help w/ the boredom. Not sure what kind you prefer, but this looked cool. Hope it's OK. Gave me good reason to take a break from studying.
He tucked the note into the desk drawer, where he had carefully stowed the others. Then he slowly opened the box, smelling the wooden pieces and the glue and paint, reveling in the memories it brought back. He had used to buy aeroplane kits like this - his childhood bedroom had been full of them; hand-built and brightly painted, some painstakingly put together and some messily done before he had acquired the dexterity to build them properly. He hadn't been able to afford kits like this for years.
It was still chilly so he grabbed the woolly blanket from the bed, wrapped up in it, and set to work.
