As owner of the Railview Hotel on the outskirts of Cokeworth, Mary Wright has seen many strange things. She has even become used to such strangeness on a daily basis. She doubts whether anything could surprise her.
And yet, as she ducks into the back room for a quick moment to file a few papers, she certainly doesn't expect the sight that greets her as she returns to the front desk. Where just moments before had been a mostly-bare desk with a few scattered papers and a scribbled note or two, there are letters. Or, more accurately, a pile of letters, each one with the same, thick yellowish envelope.
Mary blinks at the pile. It doesn't go away. Curious, she moves several cautious steps nearer. Each envelope is written on with the same emerald green ink and elegant handwriting, oddly old-fashioned and yet neat - almost business-like. And, stranger still, all the letters she can read at a glance are addressed exactly the same:
Mr. H. Potter
Room 17
Railview Hotel
Cokeworth
A joke, she thinks. This must be some sort of joke. And yet, as she strides swiftly to the front doors and throws them wide, she recognizes that nobody she knows would spend such time and money on a gag. She leans out the doors, into the sidewalk, scanning all directions. A pigeon with grimy wings picks at remnants of discarded food on the street. A plastic bag skitters down the gutter in the wind. The morning sun reflects lazily off of parked cars. But there is no one in sight - not even the back of a mailman as he disappears around the corner. It unnerves Mary, and she shivers slightly as she pulls back inside and swings the doors shut behind her to the quiet protests of rusty hinges.
She returns to her desk slowly, part of her wondering if the letters will be gone. Had she simply imagined the whole thing? But as soon as she nears the desk, the top of the letter pile is visible over the scratched wooden counter, emerald ink glinting slightly in the dim overhead lights. Sighing, Mary plops into her seat at the desk. She picks up a letter, dismisses the temptation to open it, and then drops it in an empty cardboard box beneath her desk. She grabs that box, sets it in her lap, and then begins to weed through the mysterious letters, tossing them into the box as she goes.
Mr. H. Potter, Mr. H. Potter, Mr. H Potter. Thunk, thunk, thunk into the cardboard box. Mary glances at the clock on the wall in between letters, and notes that her guests would currently be at breakfast. She knows exactly what she's going to do after boxing up these letters.
Find Mr. H. Potter.
…
Mary Wright had struck out on all counts so far, leaving only one table of customers left. If Mr. H. Potter was not at this table, he must not have come down to breakfast. Part of her wants to skip this table and head up to Room 17, because the heavy-set man with the distinctive look of the slightly unhinged doesn't seem very much like a Mr. H. Potter. But she supposes it's worth the try, and bustles over to the table of four disheveled travelers.
"'Scuse me," Mary interrupts, keeping her tone light and friendly. They all look up at her, with varying expressions of annoyance and curiosity - a husband and wife, and two very dissimilar boys of similar age. "But is one of you Mr. H. Potter? Only I got about an 'undred of these at the front desk," she explains. As she had at every other table, she holds the envelope out in front of her for her customers' consideration. And Mary Wright finds herself surprised yet again.
It is not the gruff-looking husband who reacts, but the skinny kid with the dark hair. His hand darts toward the proffered letter, but the husband knocks it away. Mary stares. The husband's jaw is set in a kind of fierce determination. His wife is watching him nervously. The other boy at the table, who is undeniably their son, is also watching for his father's reaction, albeit less nervously and more vacantly. But the dark-haired boy - the one who reached for the letter - is not watching the man at all. His vibrant green eyes are fixed on the letter in Mary's hand, boring into it as if staring hard enough would make its contents visible. He is leaning forward with tangible interest, arms on the tabletop, cartoonishly large sleeves overflowing onto his empty plate. There is a deep sort of longing that exudes from him, and for a moment, Mary wants nothing more than to hand this strange kid his mysterious letter. But then the husband stands up, and the moment is gone.
"I'll take them," he says decisively, nodding at the letter in Mary's hand. She nods and turns away with him at her heels, headed for the front desk. She wants to look back at that kid - he, Mary decides, looks like a Mr. H Potter - but she resists the urge and continues forward. The two of them exit the dining room and head straight for the front desk. Mary circles around behind it, grabs the box of letters, and passes it across the counter to the husband.
"Are you Mr. H. Potter?" she asks him curiously as he peers in the box with a deeply distrustful glare.
"No," he responds, a little too firmly. Then, seeming to suddenly realize that he is in public and in front of a stranger, he clears his throat and attempts a smile - it comes out like a horrifying grimace. "Potter is my nephew," he explains, his tone forcibly light. "My wife and I are his legal guardians." Mary pictures young Mr. H. Potter in his oversized clothes and crudely-taped glasses, and has serious doubts about this couple's so-called guardianship.
But there is nothing she can do, and so Mary watches as the husband takes the box in his large hands, holding it carefully as if it were a bomb rather than a stack of yellowed letters. He reaches the door to the dining room, nods at her stiffly, and then disappears through it. Mary doesn't see any of them again.
Later that day, as she cleans out Room 17, she notices that the trash bin has a particularly large amount of ash in it. And as she moves the bin out to empty it, she finds her cardboard box sitting there behind it.
It's empty.