You...shouldn't be snooping here. There are a few notebooks on top of the desk, but within the drawer, which was lockedis much more: letters folded into envelopes, torn out notepages and some other scant detritus. Mementos, little boxes. There's a ring in one of them, an old, simple gold band. Despite the jewelery collection that's more prominent by her bed, there's also a single electric blue earring here, the kind that doesn't dangle, but press into the lobe. It's a shade you don't see her wear often, and it's pressed into a small bit of notecard with nonsense written on it. You feel as if it means something, but for now it escapes you.

None of what you find here is organized. Grocery lists are nestled amongst half-written love letters, journal entries are tucked up against scribbled ideas for songs and stories, pages of etymology and word rumination are stored with what you realize are grief-stricken suicide notes. If you pull everything out, it more than fills the desk's surface area, and then some, resulting in stacks of the innermost thoughts of your host. The handwriting is fairly consistent; precise and legible print, and the few places you find cursive are indulgent and often crossed out. The ink is always black, and it's always ink. There isn't a pencil anywhere on the desk, actually, just a painted box filled with cheap pens.