She gazes unseeingly out the window,

her legs stretched along the cushioned chaise, leaning against the upper curve of the pale carmine fabric. Sighing, her mind rests dully, uninterested in the murky colors beyond the heavy glass. It is raining steadily, but with a sense of languor, the endless drops falling only because it is easier to do so than to remain with the drab heavy clouds. The vibrancy of autumn has dulled with the arrival of November's subduing showers, all is brown and grey, with a few small patches of tarnished gold. There are few distinct shapes now, the rain and pale light have re-formed the landscape into a muddy impression; there is no beauty for her eyes to find.
       The room is silent, but for the drops spattering the windowpane and churning through the drainpipe along the outside of the wall. Once there would have been the sound of small running feet, or company to call, or at the least other voices and the occasional creaking of the floor, but even that is lacking today. The piano sits silent, its keys hidden away beneath their cover, shy in their solitude. The phonograph is quiet beneath a thin brushing of dust, its raspy voice long unused - it was the children who had wanted it purchased. She has thought many times of using it, simply for the thoughts of them it would bring, and to fill some of the deafening silence, but she never could grow to feel anything but disconcerted by voices from a thin plastic disk. The disembodied vocals and ghostly instruments always sounded distant and scratched, as if an abused photograph were making sound, or old spirits long-gone were amusing themselves by playing the newest songs.
       She rests her cheek against the back of the chaise, a single strand of faded auburn hair slipping free from its bonds and resting against her light skin. Her brown eyes gaze dully at her hands resting in her lap, fingers idly twisting a bit of the soft blue cloth. She studies for a moment the interplay of light and shadow as she moves the fabric, but the changes are subtle and faint in such dim light as the overshadowed day provides. After a brief time, she reaches languidly to the small, ornately decorated table which stands near the lounge, lifting a small book with a delicately ornamental cover from it. She opens the book to the place marked by a bit of pale cream-colored ribbon, and begins to read.

       Some time later, the housemaid enters the room, humming softly as she lightly dusts the various curious and precious trinkets scattered around the room, cleaning and lightly polishing the many wooden surfaces of the furnishings. Turning to dust the beginnings of a cobweb in a corner of the window frame, she sees the softly dozing figure on the chaise, and abruptly stops humming, the notes replaced by an amused smile on her lips. With remarkable care, she lifts the book free of unprotesting hands, replaces the ribbon and sets it upon the table, after taking a quick glance at the page to which it had been left open.
       "Reading that same one yet again, ma'am?" she murmurs with affectionate amusement. "You do seem to be particularly fond of that poem... I can't myself quite see why, it seems so terribly sad! But perhaps your intuitions are more refined than mine, and there's a beauty to it I am missing."
       Moving lightly across the floor, the maid finishes her dusting and polishing as quietly as ever she may. Nearly having completed her circle around the room, she leans over to take special care with a small cabinet, a number of small knick-knacks resting atop it. Gently lifting each fragile piece, she dusts both them and the surface upon which they rest. Her curious eyes and fingers delight in the smallest details of paint and sculpting on the china figures, as well as investigate with a touch of wonder the visible age of a few family heirlooms. She has at this point greatly slowed her pace of working, so intrigued by what she typically dares not take the time to study, the knowledge that the mistress of the house is sound asleep emboldening her. Setting back in its place a tiny china cat, its fur and eyes depicted in minute detail, her eyes are drawn by something previously unnoticed catching the light. On closer inspection, barely daring to breathe, she sees it is a thin silver object, caught and wedged between two adjoining pieces of wood which in part make up the cabinet. Gently moving to a safe distance the sundry objects resting atop the cabinet, she attempts to poke and pry the unknown bit of silver free of its entrapment, without even a remote proximity to success. She pauses a moment, then quickly stands and scampers with the lightness of a young woman (as she ought, she is barely nineteen years of age) as quickly as she dares out of the room, and soon again back in, a small penknife in hand. Peering again at the trapped object, noting its small size and probable delicacy, she wraps the open blade of the knife in a handkerchief, to prevent causing any scratches. With all the care in the world, she gently slips the blade between the boards, trying to slide it beneath the curious trinket. Grimacing slightly, she jiggles the blade a little, then quickly glances across the room to the prone figure on the chaise - she yet sleeps, silent and still but for quiet measured breaths. Grinning, more confident now, she tries again, slipping the blade in on the other side of the gleaming silver. It is not greed or a hope to steal this obviously forgotten thing which drives her on so - it is simply curiosity, and a liking for a good mystery (good, of course, implying a forthcoming solution). The cabinet squeaks slightly, and she halts her motion a moment to look over the rest of the piece, satisfying herself that her work will do nothing to actually damage it.
       At last, she feels a slight movement of the object, the silver glinting as it rises just a little further into the light. Excitedly, she continues, fighting back her exuberance and trying to maintain her initial carefulness. Slowly, slowly, the thing emerges from the darkness of the wood. Breathless, she works until it is entirely free, then drops the knife and kerchief and takes the small discovery into her hands.
       It is a silver locket, tarnished from time spent forgotten and neglected, as well as having picked up a bit of stain from the wood it had been encased in, but it is otherwise undamaged. Peering closely, she can make out a delicate design engraved into both front and back of the metal, though the mixture of tarnish and dust renders it indiscernible. It is circular in shape, no more and probably less than an inch across, with a tiny heart-shaped loop at the top, where it must have once been strung on a chain.
       Her heart fluttering in excitement, she slips her fingernail gently beneath the locket's clasp, hardly daring but taking great care, and hears the faintest click as it opens. Her eyes wide and eager, she tenderly unfolds the sides, seeking out an image.
       She is not disappointed. On the right side, where the locket would lay against the owner's breast, is a tiny portrait of a young woman. Though the image is somewhat faint with age, it has been kept from stain over the years by the protective silver, and the woman's face is clear to be seen. Large deep eyes sparkle through time passed, and a shyly teasing smile lingers eternally on the inviting-looking lips. Soft curls spill around the gentle face, dark and luxurious - this must have been a private photograph, as her hair is let down. There is a compelling feeling about the image, an intimacy to her expression and eyes.
       "She was in love..." the transfixed maid breathes, her voice too soft to disturb even the bits of dust on the locket. "And she was looking at him just then, or at least thinking of him, that expression was for him alone. I wonder..."
       Ever so lightly, she brushes a fingertip over the forever-young face, a thousand questions and imagined answers flooding the back of her mind. There is nothing to be seen of the woman's dress that might help to identify the date of the photograph, and with her hair down, there is no help in that aspect, either. She knows too little of the art of photography to use the appearance or material of the picture to further her theories - all is a mystery to her inquisitive young mind. Yet for the moment she is content with not knowing, for her mind is conjuring all sorts of romantic tales, of love and loss and the enduring strength of affection.
       A quiet whimper from the sleeping form on the chaise brings her suddenly back to her place, and she realizes she has no time for such fantastic daydreams now. She lovingly closes the locket, then slips it into her apron pocket, intending to clean it as best she may when she has a spare moment. Quickly but carefully, she replaces the fragile objects on the cabinet top - their appeal has rapidly paled beside this new discovery.
       Standing, she gathers up her cleaning supplies, and takes a look around the room, ensuring that everything is clean and orderly, in place and as it should be. Her mistress continues to doze on the chaise, unaware of the maid's wondrous find. She does not now wake her - she knows how easily the older woman tires, and how much she dislikes being woken when she sleeps. There will be time enough later to tell her of the locket, when she will be more interested.
       Trying valiantly to bring her mind back to the rest of the day's work, she leaves the room, her leg tingling slightly through the layers of fabric which separate it from the locket. "I suppose the dining room may not need quite as thorough a cleaning today..."

       The day has grown only darker, and it is late afternoon when she wakes from dreamless sleep. She opens her eyes, and they slowly begin to adjust to the light and understand what it is they see - her mind is still fogged with drowsiness, with the added confusion of waking someplace other than her own bed. Gradually she becomes aware of her place in the parlor, as well as the figure sitting at her feet on the lounge.
       "You are home then, Elijah? Heavens, I must have slept so long... I did not realize how tired I was..."
       Smiling gently, he puts a hand gently over hers. "It's alright, you needn't worry over it. It is not quite time for supper, it grew dark more quickly than usual today, largely because of the rain I suppose."
       "Is it still raining, then? I grow so tired of the damp and drear it brings, everything it touches turns grey and unappealing."
       He chuckles quietly, patting her hand with tender affection, his eyes unreadable in the dim and dusky light of the room. "Yes, but things would not again be someday green were it not for the grey in-between." His voice softens thoughtfully, gently stroking her hand and wrist. "The joys will feel all the greater for the dullness between. The rain refreshes all things, bringing new life to even that which had appeared dead."
       "I always told you that you ought to have been a preacher, Elijah. Your name would suit it, and your gift for turning inspirational phrases only proves it." Though once the words would have been a playful jibe, there remains only a trace of the light-hearted humor she could once have given the jest.
       Aware of this, more so than she, he laughs softly, patting her hand again. "Yes, but I have not the faith for it, nor the generosity of spirit toward mankind in general as would be proper. My name didn't quite hold up to my parents' apparent hopes, it seems."
       "How many of us ever do?" she murmurs, to herself more than in answer.
       He is silent a moment, though inside his mind a thousand rebuttals scream at once. Moving gracefully from his seat on the couch, he kneels before her, holding his delicate hands in his much stronger ones, pressing a kiss to them. His voice low but unaccusing, he replies gently, "I know it is still in you to play, my dear... But come, it is time to ready for supper."
       Standing, he helps her to her feet, and leads her from the room, her arm holding to his, both silent... and the silence between them is far deeper and more withdrawn than the silence which falls on the empty room.

       Late that evening, she enters the sitting room again, lighting a few lamps to push back for a time the encroaching night. She stands to the side of the writing desk, waiting. As the master and mistress of the house had lingered over their supper, she had time in which to clean the locket, doing her best to carefully remove the grime of long years from each small part and every delicate engraving. Once the dishes had been cleared away and she had tidied up the dining room, she had intended to show the locket to her mistress. But rather than spend quiet time in the library or sitting room as usual, the master had whisked her into bed early, with little protestation on her part. The servants had murmured quietly amongst themselves about this fresh bout of melancholy she seemed to have fallen prey to, but they each had manners enough to say nothing outside of their own quarters.
       And so, she had needed to screw up her courage to ask him for a spare moment, at his convenience. (She does not fear him, but rarely has she occasion to be in his presence, working both early and late as he often does. So, a fair bit of nerves preceded her simple request.) He had asked her to wait in the sitting room, and that he would be there shortly.
       Thus, she waits, and while so doing, takes the locket again from her apron pocket, running gentle fingertips over the ornate surface. The tarnish all but gone, the intricate twinings of flowers and vines across the locket catch the light in graceful curves. Yet beautiful as the casing is, it is still the portrait it contains that is the most alluring. Lightly working the clasp, she opens the locket, letting it rest in her palm as she continues to study it. She had been extremely careful while cleaning not to disturb the photograph, for fear of damaging it. However her efforts had here uncovered another small hint - on the left side, facing the image, was the lightest, finest bit of engraving she had ever seen. So thin and faint were the letters, it had been some time before she was able to make them out:
       "All my love".
       Unfortunately, this shed little light on anyone's identity, but it did confirm the feeling she had on first sight of the photograph. Whatever the relation or names of the woman and the owner of the locket, it was filled with a love so strong it could still be felt, though the locket had been long since removed from those involved.
       A low creak from the floorboards - she lifts her head toward the sound, seeing him enter the room. Crossing before her, he deposits himself on the desk chair, resting his hands on spread knees. His demeanor is calm and open, whatever cares had creased his face earlier in the day have been released for the evening, leaving only echoes in the wrinkles which are beginning to stay permanently on his brow. "You said you found something which you wished to show me?"
       Her nerves allayed at his amiable manner, she nods, holding out the locket resting on her open palm. "It was stuck between the boards of the cabinet there, sir. I pried it out, and cleaned it off some. It looked as if it had been there for quite a long time, but I hadn't noticed it before today."
       He takes the small charm from her, holding it close to his eyes, inspecting the outside thoroughly. He then slips his thumbnail into the tiny clasp, which opens easily. "Either it is not so old as it looks, or it was extremely well-crafted, to yet open so smoothly as that," he murmurs, but halts his musings as his eyes fall on the photograph inside. It is not until a long moment has passed that he speaks again, and then his voice is hushed in wonder: "She is very beautiful..."
       She nods, uncertain of what etiquette is called for in such a situation, but her curiosity overcomes the uncertainty in an instant. "Do you recognize her, sir?"
       He shakes his head, now studying the inscription beside the image. "Not to my knowledge... This was my father's house before it was mine, I spent part of my childhood here, but I do not know her... You said it seemed to have been there for some time?"
       She nods again. "It was terribly tarnished, sir. I did not even see the message inside at first, nor could I make out the pattern on the outside. It was there, wedged in the space between the boards on the top of the cabinet."
       "That has been in the house for as long as I can remember," he acknowledges with a thoughtful nod, "though it was in the attic when I was young. But never have I seen this, nor this woman... She must have had some connection with the house at one time, but I confess I haven't a guess as to what or when it might have been. I wonder who she is?"
       "As do I, sir," she replies with a smile.
       He lifts his head and looks at her, returning the smile. "I will be seeing my father later in the week, I shall ask him if he has any knowledge of this." Running a finger over the intricate surface, he chuckles, eyes brightly turning back to her. "But I must say, you did superb work in cleaning this - I now know why the silver around the house has looked so well these past months. I thank you for your efforts - they do not go unnoticed."
       She flushes brightly at the unexpected compliment, and looks down at her hands, trying to keep her voice calm and polite, though she is beaming in delight. "It's really no trouble, sir, but thank you kindly."
       Still smiling, he waves her away. "I will let you go now, I'm certain you have things I am keeping you from. Thank you again, this is an exquisite piece, and I am eager to learn more of it."
       She smiles in return, as she drops a slight curtsy, then leaves the room, her heart still bright with excitement, and her thoughts full of yet more beautiful and mysterious imagined histories.

       A few weeks later, she is again dusting the sitting room, taking her usual care around the various small knick-knacks. When she reaches the cabinet, she lifts each piece to dust it and the area on which it rests, as she always does. She gasps, her eyes growing wide, as in the space covered by a china plate, she finds the locket, which she has not seen since the day she first found it, though its mysteries have often been in her mind. Lifting it curiously from the cabinet top, she realizes there is a folded note attached as well, written in a formal hand:
       "No-one knows to whom this belonged, so I felt it ought to go to the one who found it and had the most interest in it. As a reward for your fine silver-polishing. -E.M."
       Overwhelmed and overjoyed, she gasps in delight, hardly believing he should be so kind. Of course, being so wealthy, he might not have a need for such a small thing as this, but surely it would be worth something? She couldn't possibly---
       But she remembers the smiles and kindness he showed her that evening, and a realization forms in her mind. It is worth something, but what it means to her is far more than the monetary amount. And somehow, he was able to see this, and so in his generosity, he gave it to the one who would value it most.
       Folding her hands tenderly around it, she holds it to her heart, closing her eyes and whispering a thank you.

       The following day, she enters the room to the delicate sounds of a nocturne floating into the air from the long-unused piano. Looking over in surprise and delight, she sees the mistress seated at the piano, her long graceful fingers lovingly coaxing sweet nothings from the keys. She pauses a long moment, standing just inside the door frame, at first simply from uncertainty, not wanting to be a disturbance, but soon swept away by the beauty of the piece, both sweet and sad at once, richly colored by longing.
       "You may enter, it will not be a bother to me, I know that you work quietly."
       Startled, she realizes the song has ended, and she is the recipient of her mistress' attention. "Oh! Of course, I am sorry," she answers in a jumble. Setting to work, she glances over to the piano, and seeing her turning the pages of a music book idly, speaks up again. "You play beautifully, ma'am. That's why I was standing still. I could hardly bear to move and risk breaking the spell."
       Smiling warmly at her maid's admission, she plays a few gentle notes. "I once played quite often. I had lessons from the time I was very young, and my parents were quite proud of me. Yet when I grew older, and was asked to play for others, at church or weddings, parties, anything... I refused. I found that I was purely unable to. Oh, I could muddle through all right, but my fingers felt so clumsy. The emotion which swept them away and made the music truly beautiful was not there when I was surrounded by a crowd, and... to hear the music be so empty caused me great pain. I began to only play when alone, at most to dear friends, but even then, to no more than two or three at a particular time. Once I had a family, I had little opportunity to play... and for years I was too busy to realize how much I missed it. But once they grew and moved away, I knew I had been away too long, and feared I had lost all I had once possessed. That fear paralyzed me for quite some time, I did not want to try because I knew how it would crush me had it gone, but now..." She laughs softly at her past foolishness, but then smiles. The smile is soft, but with a deep joy which lights her in such a way as her young maid has not yet seen. "It does seem it has not completely gone from me, wouldn't you agree?"
       The girl grins brightly in answer, her eyes giving more assurance than any words could. "It certainly does seem that way, ma'am."
       For a minute or two, the only sounds in the room are from the soft swooshing of the maid's dusting, and the occasional test notes and brief figures from the piano. Then:
       "Such a lovely locket it is that you found, isn't it? Yet it was the photograph that truly struck me..."
       Pausing a moment in her work, she looks over to the woman seated at the piano. "I feel the same, the locket is beautiful, but the girl... there is something in her eyes which draws you in and will not let you go."
       Nodding, the elder woman's eyes gaze far beyond what lies before her in the present. "She reminded me of someone... not that I recognized her, not at all, but something about her, I recognized. It was several days before I realized that it was the vibrancy, the passion and endless desire for further passions, that she has. I haven't the faintest how the photographer managed to capture that, but he did, and it is her engaging nature which reaches us from beyond the years.
       "There is such an eagerness about her as well, an excitement for all the beauty and wonder she expects to find in life... and I remember when my eyes must have said the same of me. Never lose that, Mary, hold fast to your wishes and dreams, for they are what will keep old age away from your pretty eyes, as well as melancholy from your heart."
       Taking a slow breath after such a long, thoughtful soliloquy, she laughs softly. "Gracious, and it seems she has also brought back my prattling tongue! It appears that has not entirely left me, either."
       Both women laugh lightly at this, one turning back to the piano as the other turns back to dusting and polishing.
       Hesitantly, she clears her throat, certain it is an infraction of etiquette but feeling it needs to be said, and that the older woman will not mind. "I am certain that when the locket was lost, or perhaps hidden there, that it was thought it would never be found again. Yet simple chance could not have let me find it, or let it be seen by... by those who would understand it." Her voice drops off shyly, nervous about speaking in so casual a manner with her employer - and out of turn, at that.
       Yet she is answered with a warm smile, and a gentle laugh. "That is quite true, Mary... that is true indeed. I may yet find it again, before it is gone forever... I may yet."