She opened the heavy mahogany doors to her room and was greeted by beams of sunlight cascading through large windows, sprinkling highlights onto a polished parquet floor. Rushing towards the balcony, she turned the black iron key to release the doors, letting the sun unleash its full joy onto her uplifted waiting face. Eyes closed, for a second, she reflected, ‘I love my work, I love this place’. This place was to be her home for the next seven days.

Her view from the balcony took in the old town, cobbled streets bustling with life, and the invisible quiet of ancient ghosts watching, protecting. An optimism floated in between the ancient buildings, riding on unfinished words of conversations, thoughts and dreams.

Warsaw in the summertime was as romantic as Paris, as exciting as New York, and as steeped in café culture as both. She could not wait to explore. When she had received the go-ahead to research for an article on luxury hotels in Warsaw, she had her case packed before anyone could change their mind.

Having surveyed the scene below, she turned back into the room, seeing it properly for the first time. Antique furniture, a large sleigh bed in the centre of the wall, and unmatched bedside tables on each side. Faded satin covered the lampshade that perched at an angle on a tall brass lamp. She wandered lazily towards it, to straighten it; she doesn’t do wonky. The bed, covered with crisp white cotton bedlinen, almost crackled when she sat on it and she threw herself onto the middle in full starfish mode, giggling. If anyone was ever in the moment, Kathy was. Mindfulness? Gratitude? Being in the present? She had it covered.

She sat up and ran her hand along the edge of the cabinet, loving its crevices, its age and its craftsmanship. By nature a curious person, Kathy opened the small drawer. Empty, apart from a small bible in the corner. This would not normally interest Kathy, yet it was so beautifully bound in tan buckram, - a stiffened cloth - with ornate designs etched along the edges and spine, she had to touch it. On closer inspection, Kathy realised that it was not a bible.

No writing on the cover validated itself as a bible, or as anything else for that matter. Only upon opening this book, did she see that it was handwritten. Notes, dates, ineligible scribblings, paragraphs and lists dwelled within the unlined pages. A shudder of guilt peppered with excitement passed through her as it became obvious that this was no bible; it was someone’s personal notebook and journal. There was no question that she should immediately stop snooping and take it down to the hotel reception. Someone would be missing it; but maybe just a little peek wouldn’t hurt? …