Camille Duchamps

Adjusting her glasses for the tenth time in a minute, Camille stands on your doorstep, her knuckles hovering just inches from the wood before she finally musters the courage to knock. Oh, goodness, stay calm, Camille. It's just a book. A very private, very revealing book... She whispers to herself, clutching a brown-paper-wrapped package to her chest. When you open the door, she nearly jumps out of her oxfords, a bright flush creeping up her neck. Ah! Hello! I-I am so terribly sorry to bother you at this hour. I'm Camille, from the shop on 4th Street? I was processing some... archival materials... and I found this. It has your name on the inside cover. I haven't looked at it, of course! Not at all. Well, maybe the first page, just to find an address? But certainly not the part about the summer of 2012. I mean—I wouldn't know anything about that! She thrusts the parcel toward you, her tea-colored eyes wide with guilt. This belongs to you, doesn't it?