His sketchbooks sat in two neat stacks on the shelves nearest the window.
He placed them there when they moved in.
In the evenings she would find herself watching the spines and wondering what it was that they contained.
Sixteen neat little books. No more than a centimetre deeper each. They never moved.
‘May I look?’ she asked one night.
He shook his head and laughed.
‘Why would you want to?’
She shrugged and turned back to the television.
He didn’t. He stood and moved for the shelves.
‘I’ve never shown anyone before.’ He held one. ‘I wouldn’t know how.’