Alan sits in an empty room. His ashtray is full, and his cup is empty on the floor. A stack of papers on his desk. Case files, legal documents, bills. He hangs his head. This used to be his dream job. Books of Sherlock Holmes, Hercule Poirot, and Nancy Drew sit on his bookshelf, unread for years. Oh how he wishes he never read them. He sighs, and reaches inside a cardboard box labelled “Unsorted”.
A handful of letters, yellowed paper and hideous handwriting. It is addressed to… him? He widens his eyes just a little, before fatigue brings them down again. He reaches for his letter-opener and slices the first open. Confetti. Is this some kind of joke? He wonders. Childish insolence. Now I have to clean this all up. Grumbling softly, he tosses the vacant envelope aside, and starts to open the next. A proper note this time. A drawing of a man dressed in a suit, with a deerstalker hat. Is this supposed to be Sherlock? What kind of game are you playing? Curiosity wakes him now. He opens the next. “Did you make it?” Finally, some kind of message, but the meaning is still cryptic. His heart-rate rises. Is this some kind of threat? He opens the next. “How did we get here?” We? Do I know this person? Who is this?! He clenches his jaw, fully awake now. He opens the next. Another drawing, this time of a trophy, labelled “Best Detective in The World”. He scoffs, about to drop it to the floor, when he notices that his thumb was covering some writing. He lifts it. “Don’t lie!” Enough. He reaches for the paper-shredder, but hesitates. Years of experience tells him that this isn’t just spam. Something is amiss. He reaches instead for the next letter. “Remember the box in the attic?” He freezes. What box? And whose attic? What the hell is in that box? With shaking hands, he begins to open the last. But he stops. There is more writing on the front of the envelope. “Open when you forget”. Attached to it is a small key. Forget what? Am I being poisoned? And what does this key lead to? He decides to heed the advice, for fear of the consequences. However, something in him brews, stirs. He collects the open letters, and tosses them into an empty box. He places that box on the bookshelf, beside the books about Detectives.
Days pass. He goes about his usual routine. Smile, talk, walk, write, drink, drink, drink, smoke, drink, smoke, sleep. He nearly forgets about the letters. Until one day, he is stumped on a case. Once again, he is the only one in the office long after hours. He glances at his bookshelf. Oh Sherlock, how I wish you were here to assist me. He lifts himself off his chair. It creaks. He reaches for the books he read hundreds of times, but never in recent memory. “Sherlock Holmes, Volume 3” He flips it open. “The Hound of Baskerville” He used to love this one, the atmosphere, the thrill, the brilliance. He reads a line. Stop. On page 5, there is writing. In messy cursive. “Property of Detective Lethe”. His stomach drops. He recognises not the name, but the writing. How the attempt at cursive collapses into an untidy scrawl. How the line “e” does not quite meet the left curve. He recognises. He recognises the writing, but recalls not the individual. Lethe… Lethe… His mind races to find a match. The Alaskan river? Lethe… sounds Greek…He opens his phone and punches the name in. L E T H E. Lethe. “The Greek goddess and personification of forgetfulness. The river of forgetfulness in the underworld. Souls would drink from it to forget their past lives.” He swallows. A detective who forgets? Or a detective who chooses to forget? He closes the book, a little too quickly. Echoes in the empty room. He reaches for the bookshelf again, this time not for the books, but for the box of letters. He clears his desk, and empties the box onto the table. Letters pile upon letters, words upon words. He spreads them out and studies them. Just another routine case. Alan sleeps and the Detective wakes. Patterns, pressure marks, paper age, ink age, handwriting. He grabs his notepad. “LETHE” he writes. He studies them again. The words’ pressure, slant, carelessness. The writing is messy, but intentional. Something catches his eye. A drawing of a house, rudimentary. 2-dimensional. An arrow points to the attic. He remembers the letter about the attic. The Box. An address he mutters hurriedly. I need an address. Where is this place… He searches the letters, the envelopes. “Open when you forget” that envelope meets his gaze. He picks it up. The only one left… Hesitantly, he opens it, expecting powder or wires. Instead, he is met with a piece of paper, with a simple line on it. 42nd Murphy Street. His childhood home. His chest tightens. Not of fear, but of confusion. How would anyone know my childhood home? He knows what he has to do now. He grabs the key attached to the letter, and finally leaves the office.
The streets are cold and empty. He passes familiar neighbourhoods and streets. He used to grow up here. Memories flash of him playing hide and seek with his friends. He was always good at it. He knew at a glance where the best hiding spot was, and would either use it to his advantage to hide, or to find them. Maybe that’s why nobody liked playing it with him. He can’t help but smile at the memory, but it quickly vanishes. Focus on the job at hand. At last he reaches the address on the letter. “Alan!” A voice cries out from across the street. He stops. A familiar voice… He turns around. A man behind the counter of an ice-cream shop. He has grey hair and a short beard. He looks awfully familiar. Nostalgia builds in his throat. “Is that you Alan?”
“Yes, yes it is I.”
“Alan my boy! You’ve grown so much! Do you remember me? Uncle Kairos!” Kairos laughs. “I thought I’d never see you again after you moved to the city. You always used to run past here, didn't you?”
“Yes, I suppose I did… It's so long ago now.” Alan replies softly.
“It has… 16 years now eh?” Kairos stretches his back and exhales. The years have not been kind to him. “Come come, which is your favourite again? Cookies and cream right?”
“Yes. I’m surprised you remember.” Alan approaches slowly, still in disbelief that Kairos remembers him, and a little upset at himself for not. Kairos prepares a generous serving.
“Of course I do! Uncle Kairos remembers everything. Like how you would always play detective with the other kids. What were their names? Watson… Wallace? And… Lewis?” Kairos hands Alan the cone.
“Yes, Lewis. And Watterson.” Alan bites into the dessert. Though it’s freezing, it fills him with warmth.
“Aha! Yes yes, Alan, Lewis, and Watterson. The neighbourhood detectives! Always helping us find things. You remember the Case of the Ferocious Fangs don’t you?” Kairos winks
Alan expected to cringe from that phrase, but instead found himself smiling. “Oh yeah… the stray cat that got cranky ‘cuz of the lice. All he needed was a clean and he became our friendly neighbourhood cat again.”
Kairos laughs, “You and your strange cases! Tell me, how’s life in the big city? You’re a real detective now, aren’t you?”
Alan shrugs, and sighs, “So so, it’s stressful of course. The cases are all so tedious and tiring. Some disturbing ones too… I’ll never forget the murder cases. How I wish I can go back to solving cases about missing books and water bottles again.” The mood in the ice-cream shop shifts slightly.
“Oh don’t we all. We always idolise those with our dream jobs until we actually do them, don’t we?”
“Yes, yes we do.”
“But! We always have to keep in mind why we idolised them in the first place. Me? I love making these treats and seeing kids that come by smile and laugh. Don’t let the little kid in you die, now!”
Don’t let the little kid in me die… An awakening for Alan, it seems. He nods, then clears his throat. He finishes the ice-cream. “I better get going now, many things to do… How much do I owe you?”
Kairos waves his hands, “No charge for my favourite detective. Go out there and investigate son! Just remember to come by again sometime!”
Alan shyly smiles and nods. He bids Kairos goodbye, and steps back into the cold night.
At last, he reaches his former home. The house stands silent. Long abandoned, like many houses along the street. Shuttered windows hang loosely, some on the front lawn. The gate sways in the wind, creaking softly every time a gentle breeze pushes it. He pauses there. Deep breaths. Memories rush back at him -- the laughter, the sobs, the pride, the shame. He approaches the front door. It is unlocked. What is the key for, then? He enters anyway, determined to find out. Rooms stand vacant, furniture broken. The wallpaper peels back, revealing the rotting wooden walls. Silence. But where to go? As he wonders, he recalls the letter with the drawing of the house, pointing to the attic. Surely… He ascends the staircase. He opens the hatch to the attic. It creaks. He squints his eyes and turns his head away as dust falls. Cough, cough. He waves his hand through thick air. He pulls himself up, into the attic.
It smells of dry wood and mildew, and moments tucked away to be forgotten. The floorboards groan beneath his weight. Memories of him as a child play in his mind. When he was 12, he called this place his headquarters. Alan looked around. Paintings, old toys, broken tables and chairs that once served as his study. Somehow, they looked more comfortable than the Herman Miller in his current office. Something catches his eye. A wooden box, with a huge padlock on it. Marked “Property of Detective Lethe, LLC”. He laughs softly. Little did little me know, I would see many more of these boxes. He knees before the box, reaching inside his coat pocket for the key from the letter. He slides it into the padlock. Click. It fits perfectly. He twists the key. He opens the lid, the hinges cry out, almost as if they were welcoming him back.
Inside the box are bundles and envelopes and files and paper upon paper upon notepads. Like the letters in his office, they are yellowed and fragile. Some of them are sealed with stickers portraying cats and cars. Childish attempts at ‘professionalism’. Alan picks up one of the bundles, but freezes. There, written in the same crooked and messy cursive is a name: “Alan Smith Jones, aka Detective Lethe”. He carefully undoes the brittle rubber bands. In it, written in messy print is a note: “Welcome back! I knew you’d come back! How is life as a grown up? Are you a real detective now? I’m so excited to grow up to be just like you!”
Alan feels tears building up behind his eyes. He reads further.
“I wish I can know about all the cases that you’ve solved, and all the ones you’re working on right now… Actually, nevermind. Don’t tell me! I want to figure them out myself when I become you.”
Alan blinks hard, trying to compose himself. But his tears betray him.
“I bet you’re in a huge office now, with the best spinny chair and pens and team to help you! I bet you managed to collect all the detective books now, right? Oh my gosh, I can’t wait to read them. And your files! I bet they’re super duper important and fun aren’t they? But don’t throw away our old case files ya?! Who knows, maybe they’ll help you one day.”
His throat tightens.
“Man, I wish you could help me with this case. Watterson’s mom is missing a gnome. She thinks it ran away! But between you and me? I think Wat broke it and hid the pieces. No evidence though!”
Alan lets out a small laugh. He remembers it all too well. The seriousness he once had with this case. The diagrams, the pictures he took with his toy camera, the magnifying glass he brought to the ‘crime scene’ but had no use for.
“I bet you could solve it in 10 seconds if you were here! Anyway, I better get back to this case. Watterson is getting very anxious now (totally not suspicious, right?). Bye bye! Have fun while working!”
Fun. Alan closes his eyes. The theft, the heists, the murders, the drinking, the smoking, the late nights. Take me back to the gnome and cats… He opens his eyes. Wiping away his tears, he pulls the broken tables and chairs back to their original positions 16 years ago. He sits on the chair, surprised that it still supported him. He pulls out his notepad and his fountain pen, and writes in it:
“Dear Detective Lethe. You will not believe the case I just solved…”
End
An Original Short Story by Arbitrary Poetry
16/02/2026
Theme : Self