At the Desk of Beau Holliday

You step into my office. The hardwood creaks beneath your feet. The scent of sandalwood and fresh rain linger through you, as you gently gaze around the room for signs of an author you thought you'd exchange wisdoms and insights with.

There's my desk.

You find my coffee cup, cooled but, not yet empty. A gentle breeze bends the half folded newspaper next to it, seemingly pointing across the desk to you.

Then, you see it.

You're tempted to reach the forbidden pages of another person's private thoughts but, I could be just in the other room. You don't want to get caught so, you leave leather-bound notebook, and fountain pen resting on top of it, right where it is. 

The laptop is open but, the screen is dark, possibly in Sleep Mode. You're too nervous, being in such an intimate place belonging to someone who trusts you, to even tap the keyboard and find out if it's password protected.

Besides, you value privacy and respect boundaries, no matter how intriguing this opportunity presents itself to be. Perhaps, that's what you tell yourself, preparing with a quick wit in the event I return unexpectedly.

You notice, there, in the middle of the desk, a freshly typed document. Upon closer inspection, you decipher that it's a letter. It's not addressed to anyone specifically but, you can't help but to feel that it's written for you.