If you ever need a time capsule idea, shoving a wooden box of memories into a wall will do it.

James's box had a surprising photograph of two men who had their arms around each other and were smiling widely as they looked to a blurred object on the left.

One of them had very bushy brows, and looked like a happy fellow, especially as his mouth was wide open in laughter. This was a classic example of a picture you can hear.

The other man was taller, but had a timid stance. The crinkles in his eyes expressed mirth, but it wasn't as unabashed as the man with the bushy brows.

Arabella was mesmerized. James was finally going to have a face, which was why she was startled when the photo started to get pulled from her hands.

"Wait!"

The photo flipped over, and it read:

To slick James and making peart men with pizza! Signed, G. Lombardi.

"Lombardi?" She stared at the severely browned photo card and put her finger over the blotched ink. Its oils and color had already seeped through the paper. It was a good thing that the text was still readable. "Is this Pizza Lombardi?"

If it was indeed Lombardi's pizza chain, this piece of history might well be worth a couple of bucks!

Arabella shuffled through the box and found American banknotes amounting to a little less than twenty dollars. There was also a cheque written out to James, for a meager sum of forty-three dollars. There were more photographs, but the pictures were too dark, so she could barely make out people's faces.

James's voice came from the computer. "I noticed the wall compartment when the apartment was empty. I don't even remember putting that there."

The last bit prompted her to glance back into the empty space in front of her. There were so many things that James couldn't recall. Maybe the box could help them a bit?

There was a letter inside the box, with an elegant, but broken, reddish wax seal. Feminine script in expensive ink adorned its heavy paper. If this were a modern letter, Arabella would have guessed that it was a wedding invitation.

She set the box aside and allowed curiosity to guide her. Opening the letter, she found the words: My dearest Mr. Spencer, written at the very top.

"Oh! It's a love letter!" Her fingers tensed, but she ignored the foreign feeling spreading in her chest and continued to open the folds of paper.

Clumped strands of bright blonde hair escaped and floated onto her lap.

Arabella stood, shrieked and frantically swept both letter and hair away in disgust. "What the fuck is that?!"

The hair collected itself on the floor momentarily and then floated into a neat pile on the coffee table nearby.

"It's hair," James said robotically, which earned a snort from Arabella.

"You people from the past approach dating so weirdly." She shivered as she continued to dust herself off. Just thinking about the hair strands gave her goosebumps.

Arabella took the blanket from the couch and wrapped it around herself. "That's nasty. That's the hair of a dead woman."

She stared at the clump of hair and shook her head. "I can't believe you kept that!"

There was a distant typing noise, and the computer spoke up once again. "I think it's supposed to be romantic."

Arabella made a face and approached the sink to wash her hands. She moved the box onto a part of the counter that was in her line of sight, then proceeded to continue preparing dinner. As she worked on the food, James busily inspected the contents. He read the letter without comment then disposed of the hair.

As Arabella ate, she and James threw around ideas of dishes to make. Based on their discovery, the dish might have been Italian... or not. Her money was on it being Italian. James wouldn't simply keep a photo of Lombardi if they weren't close to each other.

And if they were close, he would have influenced James in some way. "Maybe you made pizza? I have tomatoes," she mused, as she munched on her food.

"No. That's too hard. I don't even have a brick oven."

Arabella glanced at her oven. "It's not brick, but it does the job. Were you Italian?"

"I don't feel Italian."

She chuckled and wondered how one could feel nationality. "Think, James. You must have been pretty close to Lombardi to keep his picture in your box."

"Yes, or I just didn't have many pictures of myself."

"Why not?" Arabella replied suddenly without thinking. Yes, why not? Why not have more pictures of yourself? 'You were not half bad to look at,' was what she really wanted to say, but didn't.

"There weren't many cameras at that time."

Arabella blushed. Of course, that was the reason. She looked at her phone and realized how cameras were everywhere now. She wondered if she would be able to capture him if...

"Hey, James?"

"Yes?"

Arabella stood in front of a plush seat, just in case she was startled by what she would see and drop her phone. "Can you stand in front of me? I just want to see if this will work."

There wasn't any response. Maybe they needed a signal.

"Uh, let me know if you're in position." She selected the camera app and James kicked something on the floor. Arabella took several shots and pulled them up to look at.

Nothing.

Her chest deflated. Well, it had been worth a try. A brief wind surrounded her then left as quickly as it came.

"Sorry, I guess it only works for some," his matter-of-fact voice came from the computer.

Arabella sighed and moved to the sink to do the dishes. "How is it that other ghosts have special abilities and you don't? Don't they know your mission is difficult to accomplish?"

James picked up a towel and started drying off everything she had washed. Arabella flashed him a grin of gratitude. Always helpful, this one.

As he wasn't on the computer, Arabella continued in silence and she found an absurd comfort in his presence, even if she couldn't exactly see him.

The monochromatic photo of him and Lombardi flashed in her mind in different shades. It was clear that he had dimples, but his hair could have been dirty blonde, brown, or red for all she knew. The picture just left too much to the imagination.

As Arabella prepared for bed that night, James recalled how he could vaguely remember who had penned him the letter. The details written in it helped him remember some memories, but everything was still very hazy.

There was an English lady he had met overseas, but he couldn't recall if she had been more than a friend to him.

Arabella thought with a smug smile, maybe she hadn't been that remarkable after all.

Oh, how she longed to read that letter, but as he didn't ask her to, he might have wanted to keep it to himself.

Arabella used her phone to remind him not to come up that night. He was left with the laptop in the evenings and the messaging apps and syncing greatly aided their communication.

Because of this, James seemed more and more human. As they sent real-time messages to each other, she could have believed that he was an internet friend across the world—if only she didn't already know that he was a ghost.

"Good night," she typed in and inserted a ghost emoji just for fun.

James replied in seconds—he was finally getting the hang of typing. "Good night, Arabella. Don't worry, I won't cut your hair."

Arabella slept with a smile that night. No, of course, he wouldn't.

The week was spent in a frenzied craze in her apartment. She had made so many trips to the grocery to buy their ingredients and had made so much food that the fridge seemed to be stocked full. Arabella had reached out to Mrs. Rothschild to give her some, and the old lady had been grateful.

There had been multiple attempts at pizza, but James was convinced that the mystery dish couldn't have been pizza.

It was their first argument.

Arabella believed that if Lombardi loved his pizzas, he might have influenced James to make some. But James had been adamant that if Lombardi made great pizza, he wouldn't have made one himself if he could just get some from his friend.

They had both had good points, so she just decided to leave it at that and move on.

They made different versions of a salad with nuts, multiple variations of pasta, and a failed risotto.

Frustrated, Arabella thought that maybe the dish had never been Italian to begin with. The clues did not even seem like good clues at this point. Was it Italian? Did it contain nuts? The possibilities were endless!

At least, James had gained incredible dexterity in just a few days. Plates did not slip off, vegetables were cut nicely, and there were no more broken eggs. They had watched too many YouTube videos to guide them, and Arabella was falling behind on her work. Claudine sent her a few messages to follow-up, and she did the work as best as she could.

When James left daily before noon, Arabella was able to squeeze some work in. After a few hours of laboring, she found herself procrastinating and Googling recipes, excitedly anticipating their evening activities.

Work just didn't seem as important as helping a friend, and James had become one of her closest friends.

If there was one lesson she had learned this week, it was that being with Richard had many unfortunate consequences. Arabella alienated the world for him. He disapproved of all her friends, so her relationships had deteriorated, and the number of friends dwindled.

It's interesting how people, if you don't put any effort into spending time with them, had the disappointing habit of forgetting about you.

It was because of this that she thought of wrapping up some food for her newfound friends. Maybe she could work on keeping them as friends this time. Bertie had been nice and was quite helpful to her, and his boys were as good as teens got. Claudine was a bit distant, but it couldn't hurt to bring her something too.

Arabella's phone buzzed one evening. It was Claudine. "Bob wants you to come in on Monday. 8 am meeting, don't be late."

Well, that was in two days. She replied appreciatively and wrapped the last of the packs in foil.

"Isn't that a lot for Bertie?" James's robotic voice was familiar to her now, comforting even.

Arabella cocked her head to the side. It did seem like a lot. "Well, Bertie might have a family." She placed the packs into two large bags. "Besides, it will be a waste if I keep it for myself. You don't eat."

"I would love to help you." The handles of the bags stiffened, and James lifted both from the table.

She smiled, but of course, he would. The last week gave her some interesting insight into his character. James would have been the helpful neighbor, your boy-next-door who always had a smile for people he met.

"It's alright, you can stay here," she said as he brought the bags up to the hallway, the farthest from the apartment he was allowed.

Arabella made the short trip to Tchaikovsky's Grocery, and the bell alerted the whole store to her presence. Bertie was behind the counter and waved at her as she casually strolled in, basking herself in the soft tunes of the Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy.

It sounded so familiar; she just couldn't put her finger on it.

"Hey Bertie," she greeted him, as she noticed an old man shopping at the back of the store. "Where are Alex and Mikhail?"

Bertie grunted his greeting and watched Arabella place the bags on the counter. "Alex has gone home. They don't stay in the store for the evenings. My son is upstairs."

Arabella nodded and removed the packs of food from the bags. "Bertie, I've been making some food, lots of it, and I wanted to give you some."

The old man smiled at her as he observed her unwrap the foil.

"They taste good. It's just that I won't finish them, and it would be such a waste."

"You've been here many times this week. I thought you were having a party." Bertie took one pack and opened it to take a whiff. His expression seemed to indicate that he was pleased with her gifts.

The music in the store thunderously played the high notes of the song, causing Arabella to wonder if this felt romantic to Bertie rather than ominous. "This sounds so very familiar, where is this song—"

"It's from the Nutcracker," Bertie said gruffly. "My wife loved ballets. I named this store Tchaikovsky because of her."

Arabella was surprised. Of course, the Nutcracker! "I thought you were related to Tchaikovsky..."

Bertie chuckled and waved for the next shopper to approach the counter. "I'm not Russian," Bertie said to her, as he scanned the groceries, then reached into one of the bags to give a pack to the shopper.

"Marcus, this lady made this. Why don't you have a meal, eh?"

The old man tipped his hat towards Arabella appreciatively, paid, and left the store without uttering a single word.

"Well, I hope you can have your wife try the food then. I was never a good cook, but I can bring over cupcakes sometime." She smiled and waited as Bertie took one bite of the cold pizza. They say bad pizza is still pretty good even when it's bad... or cold.

Bertie chewed on it and impressed with her work, he nodded at her with his signature De Niro pout.

"Well," she asked, smiling brightly.

"Good," he replied and took another bite. "My wife has been dead for more than 10 years. She made good pizza."

Arabella winced. There was no excuse for her faux pas, she simply hadn't known. "Sorry," she managed to get out, but he was already waving her apology away.

Bertie suddenly looked up and tipped his head towards the glass door. Arabella followed his gaze and saw a scruffy man staring at them. He entered as Bertie gestured to him.

From his dirty clothes and disheveled appearance, Arabella had a hunch that the man might have been homeless. Bertie gave two packs of food to him.

"Thank you, sir. Thank you so much. This is my first meal of the day," he said gratefully, and spared a smile for Arabella as well. She felt her stomach tighten as a warm feeling captured her heart. Bertie was the very best of men.

When the man was out of earshot, Arabella turned to Bertie and gathered her bags. "That was very nice of you."

She wasn't sure if she saw it right, but Bertie seemed to blush at the comment, murmuring something about just paying it forward.

Arabella had already strolled to the door when he called out to her. "You lack basil."

"What?" She turned around curiously.

Bertie swallowed the last of the pizza, his voice thickened with his accent. "My wife made pizza with basil. Lombardi owned this store before us, that's why we have a brick oven at the back," Bertie pointed behind him, "and a garden full of herbs too. But the basil came mostly from your side. Take some."

"Oh." Arabella said her thanks and left the store.

She walked a few steps and stared at how Windsor Hall and the 2-story grocery were connected. She squinted into the dark space, where she saw a small garden connecting both structures.

"Hmm, free basil?" She never said no to free stuff.

Before she could take a step towards the alley leading to the free herbs, Arabella got a sudden feeling that she was being watched. There was a familiar chill in the air, and it wasn't the same chill that was brought about by the weather.

Weirded out as James couldn't have come down from the apartment, she glanced over her shoulder and saw Mary gazing at her from across the street.

Good lord. She was definitely looking at Arabella.

Mary remained expressionless as she crossed over, stopping just right in front of Tchaikovsky's glass door. Her body faced the shop, but her face was still directed at Arabella.

Mary's red lips formed a small smile, her gothic look still the same as the last time she saw her, and her skin both pale and human as well.

Arabella was rooted to the spot.

Mary paused, her bright red lips widening into a full knowing grin, and she gave Arabella a wink. She pushed the door to the grocery open, the bell ringing loud and clear to Arabella's ears. The notes of the Nutcracker music floated in the air and abruptly ended as the door closed solidly behind her.

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A/N: Here's an update for you! I hope you're enjoying the adventures of our friendly ghost and eager MC! Stay tuned for more! I'm working on making the updates more regular for you!

P.S. Lombardi's, I'm told, is a famous pizzeria in Manhattan. It started in Lower East Side and as an accompaniment to an Italian grocery. I thought that it could be fun to mix it in my novella! Gennaro Lombardi knew James Percy Spencer! lol, it's helping the plot move forward too, so yay!

On a more serious note though. I hope you're all doing well.

This chapter was a bit longer than usual because I intentionally wanted to add the part about the food and not wasting. I'd like to take this opportunity to influence people out there (however I can help). Most of us are on lockdown right now, and during this quarantine, we pray for the front-liners and those who are severely affected by it. If you can, please do remember the homeless. They're at the worst of their luck to be stuck on the streets during a lockdown, and if you have food to spare, kindly share :) A little kindness goes a long way!

So if you enjoyed the chapter, please do consider giving it a vote! :) Stay safe. Stay home (if you can).

UPDATE: Edited May 4, 2020

Reference: Music Background

https://youtu.be/sdduPpnqre4