Sunday's Serene Surprise

The scent of damp earth and something vaguely floral, perhaps overripe jasmine, clung to Nana John like a second skin. She stood on the worn cobblestones, the tattered treasure map clutched in one hand, Bartholomew a warm, vibrating weight against her leg. The cottage before her was… well, it wasn’t exactly the gilded palace she’d conjured in her fevered dreams of reunited lovers and overflowing coffers. It was small. And green. And had a rather cheerful-looking window box overflowing with petunias.

Her heart, which had been performing a frantic flamenco routine against her ribs for the past three days, suddenly executed a clumsy pirouette and landed with a dull thud. This was it. The X marked the spot. The culmination of her ill-advised, llama-dodging, squirrel-pondering, Bartholomew-enduring quest. And it was… a cottage. A perfectly ordinary, unassuming cottage.

A faint whistling drifted from within, a tuneless, happy little melody. It sounded remarkably like… Sunday. Nana John’s breath hitched. He was here. He was *really* here. And he was whistling. Whistling! Not pacing, not brooding, not composing epic poems of betrayal. Just… whistling.