Elias Ainsworth V

[The message, transmitted through the chain of connections, comes to Doctor Florman in the form of an envelope made of thick, dark blue paper with an embossed coat of arms - a flower and a mask framed by bones.]

Dear Dr. Florman,

Your name should not be pronounced in vain speech - too sensitive to perception, too respected in those circles where silence, competence and the absence of unnecessary questions are still valued.

I came to this city with a specific purpose, related to the cataloguing of a number of unique objects, the nature of which is not always explainable within the framework of rational thought. A person is needed whose understanding of value goes beyond matter. You were recommended... by those I listen to.

Please consider this appeal not as a business proposal, but as the first chord of possible interaction. The catalog is a living thing. It should not be just a description, but an understanding.

The location of my temporary residence - you will get the address through another person, his name is Albert Esser. He works with gilded frames in your area. Ask him for the "red list" - and he will understand everything.

There are boxes waiting for you in the house. Shelves. A box is waiting for you, which I hope you will not only not be able to open, but you will not want to. For now.

I understand your inclination to refuse. And I will accept it. But if you do decide to cross the threshold, I will be delighted to have the opportunity to observe one of the last living minds at work.

With sincere respect,

E.E.

The letter did not arrive in the office; it was waiting for Florman on the inside cane rest. No one noticed it. The letter smelled of the dust of an old leather library and, just slightly, of blooming ferns. Inside was not a name, but an invitation: to a villa that had long been crossed off the maps, where, according to rumors, no one had lived since the end of the 19th century.

Elias did not come - he waited. Among the grey walls, broken steps and silent rooms. There are boxes. Caskets. Shelves. Everything is covered with velvet, fabric, parchment. A collection that is not spoken about out loud.

The order was immense: to prepare an auction of not just magical objects, but artifacts, each of which had a history, a will, and sometimes a danger. Among them was a box. Ancient, carved. Never opened under any circumstances. They say it reflects not the present, but a forgotten truth.

Florman did not agree at once. He was repelled not only by the strange creature before him, but also by the very idea of ​​trading something that could not be measured. Their conversation was almost a duel - cold, precise, without shouting. But Elias did not insist. He simply waited.

After a pause—as long as a week of silence—Florman spoke again. He agreed. Not out of politeness. But because he saw that this was no joke. This was not just a job. This was touching something that was worth feeling—even if it was unpleasant.