Will walked into the cafe and turned off the light switch. A flash, a hollow pop, and darkness. Almost without thinking, he went through his list of objectives that needed to be done when he was put in charge of cafe lockdown - as he liked to call it.

It was both a blessing and a curse to be ensured with the responsibility of making sure everything was safe and packed up before the cafe closed at six in the evening. A blessing to his wallet. A curse to his social life.

Today, just like any other day, he had smoothly done his tasks within an hour of closing time. It was just beginning to get dark when he had finally switched off the lights and headed out the creaky back door.

A bristling wind welcomed him, ensuring that Will pulled the brim of his beanie over his eyes even further, just like he had done so many times before. The harsh British weather made sure that he always wore his five-year-old beanie and brother's old coat.

Yes, this was just like any other day.

Briskly walking through the compact alleyway, he dodged the array of rubbish that had been dumped by both other businesses and occupants that lived alongside the same street. He didn't even bother to acknowledge the needles that had been carefully tucked behind an old looking bin. Number 23 was at it again. Will rolled his eyes.

Upturning the collar of his coat, he huddled closer into himself, reluctantly bracing the chilling wind that his home country relentlessly gave him. He didn't have much longer till he reached home.

That was one of the main reasons why he took the job– hardly a five minutes walking distance. His sister argued that it was actually a ten-minute walk from a normal sized person, that it was just Will's long legs that made the journey as quick as it was. He couldn't argue with her for he was, regrettably, at least two feet above the average height of the population.

Living his life hovering over endless heads was something he was accustomed to after his sudden growth spurt.

Will hardly glanced at the Chinese Takeaway over to his right. He knew that just like the day before, the old Italian man was at the window, changing the sign to "open" before giving a cheery wave in his direction. When he first opened, the main reason his customers came was just to see why a born-and-bred Italian had decided to move to Britain and set up a Chinese takeaway on the outskirts of Oxfordshire. They came out of curiosity. They stayed for the, surprisingly, authentic cuisine.

Turning a corner, Will reached the end of his journey, carefully opening the front door of his parent's house and shutting it behind him. Without realising, he hung his coat up, took off his shoes, and wandered over to the kitchen.

The clock read 6:50.

Today had been a much quicker clean up than yesterday; he supposed the reason for that was his own haste of his discovery. All the way home the letter seemed to have transformed into a small weight in his trouser pocket. His mind was so caught up in it, he had to focus on counting his steps to get the thoughts out of his normally blank mind.

Tugging open the fridge door, he pulled out the leftover apple pie from the other day before turning back the way he came, moving up the stairs and into his cramped and messy room. Will could hear his Mum in the living room, patiently helping with his sister's homework. He pitied her. No one else could cope with the 12-year-old's, frankly, stupid questions.

Everyone else was out of the house like they normally were on a Tuesday evening. His dad was working late, as usual, while his brother was probably at his girlfriend's house having his "daily dose of fun". Will always resented the way his older brother went through girls; however, the response he got was always a joking ruffle of the hair and a laugh.

Closing his bedroom door with his foot, he shoved half the pie in his mouth with one hand. With the other, he pulled the paper out from his jean pocket, unfurling the crinkled sides and laying it flat down on his messy desk.

For a split second, he froze, unsure if he should even read it. Yes, someone had obviously left it behind, but does this mean it was meant to be read by someone other than the writer?