My spirits were elevated by the enchanting appearance of nature; the past was blotted from my memory, the present was tranquil, and the future gilded by bright rays of hope and anticipations of joy.
-Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein
Today I went with Man and Woman to the park to observe the foliage, to smell what there was to smell, and to see what larks there were to be had. There were many leaves all blown into piles in the park, and I sniffed through them.
I made my way to the top of a rise and looked out over the park, surveying the area for anything out of the ordinary. There were many human children, playing and shouting, and some familiar canine faces from the neighborhood. A few were unfamiliar.
Woman and I ran around and I leaped and pranced as I felt the simultaneous invigorating influences of the fall air, enticing smells, bright sunshine, and the rush of running rapidly over moist earth.
I rested for a time on one of the park benches, taking in the view once more. I thought to myself, is Orange Boy enjoying a crisp autumn day like this one, somewhere in the world? I sighed as I thought of my brother and made an effort, this time, to place my thoughts entirely in my surroundings instead of in the past.
We walked down to the beach, then, and I spent some small amount of time examining the washed-up objects which I found there. I did so with a mild interest only until I encountered that scent which has so baffled and excited me in the recent past: my brother, Orange Boy had been here! I was certain now, after having admitted to myself the possibility of his being truly alive and after having committed myself anew to the quest to find him, that this was my brother’s scent. I dug a little way into the sand until I found a clam shell. Did he mean to leave this for me? What can it mean?
I returned to the rise where I had surveyed the park before, and looked once more for my errant sibling, but I could not find him. I am growing ever more certain, however, that Orange Boy is somewhere near, that he is aware of my propinquity, and that he is now attempting to communicate with me.
Why, though, does he not come to meet me openly? Is he being prevented? Is he in danger? As ever, new discoveries leave me with fresh questions. What seems certain is that, despite the probability that my mother had disposed of my brother, he must be alive. It is the only explanation for the signs which have lately appeared to me.
when you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth
-Sherlock Holmes, in Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s The Sign of Four