The first shaft of morning sun lifts the courtyard from shadow, like an old-time cinema organ rising from the stage. Yes—another message. I smell gardenias and a hint of sulphur.
Hunkering down, viewing from a distance, turning round suddenly. I try stratagems to decipher the chalked words, but I can make out only the word all.
A threat or a promise? Give me all your money? You have been naught, you shall be all?
Of course, I could wait through the night to catch my mystery correspondent. But if you peek, Santa doesn’t come.
Perhaps the word is allo?