He was loading the printer with paper when he saw it.
It was only seven words, typed out, in English, but the significance of what he read wasn’t lost on him. He stood thinking. How did it get there? He had only just broken open a new ream of white A4 paper. Out of the possible five hundred sheets he had discovered this one! How weird is that? He flipped through the pack. No, it was the only one with anything printed on it. He wasn’t sure who he was really comfortable showing it to. Probably his Grandpa; he had always been able to confide in him. He took it through to the back of the house and tapped on his door. He heard him call out and went in.
“Take a look at this Grandpa,” he said, as he handed him the sheet.
The old man took it. He sat turning it over in his wrinkled fingers a couple of times. He wasn’t wearing glasses when he looked up. “Paper,” he said, pulling a funny face.
“Yes, but read it, please. Put your specs on. I wanted you to see it first. It was buried in a brand new pack of printing paper. I’ve no idea how it could have got there. I’m not sure who I should tell about it. What do you think?”
He put his glasses on and stared at both sides of the paper again. “Sorry, lad, can’t see anything.”
The boy took it back. Maybe Grandpa’s eyes just weren’t good enough. He thanked him anyway.
His mother was standing in the kitchen, reading recipes. He handed her the sheet, but the same thing happened. She said she saw nothing. He took it out to the garage where his father was fitting new spark plugs. “Sorry, son, my hands are grubby, you hold it up so I can read it.” It happened once more. “No, sorry,” he said, after squinting at both sides carefully.
He took the sheet to his room, where he sat on the edge of his bed and read it again. He was shaking.
Suddenly, he knew what to do. He took it into the bathroom, scrunched it up… and flushed it.
