Confession of blind Matthew

Chapter 1

The Unusual Suitcase

I didn’t meet that silver-haired man by chance.

His name was Matthew, and he was a frequent guest at the Dale Carnegie Club, nestled inside the old Skibo Castle, where I work as a porter.

How I ended up in this place is another story entirely — one we’ll return to in due time.

Matthew usually arrived with his son, John. Among the club’s distinguished members, he always stood out. Even in his later years, he carried himself with light humor and a suitcase full of remarkable stories — not invented ones, but stories carved by life itself.

Matthew was one of the club’s earliest members. Everyone knew him — from waiters to senior housekeepers who had served in the castle for decades.

His silver hair was thick and combed back, his face always clean-shaven, and he favored light-colored shirts — crisply ironed, never with a tie.

How do I know? I often brought his clothes up from the laundry, where they were washed and pressed more frequently than most.

That’s exactly what I was doing the day we first met. I happened to be the only porter on duty that evening, running up and down the corridors with deliveries and guests’ belongings.

Matthew stayed in his favorite room — Sigurd.

Skibo Castle doesn’t number its rooms like ordinary hotels. Each one has a name, and those names aren’t chosen at random.

Behind each is a story — or a person — in whose memory the room was named.

And considering the castle dates back to the twelfth century, it’s not hard to imagine just how many stories its walls still keep.

The Sigurd Room had its own atmosphere. Stepping into it felt like stepping back in time — centuries, not just decades.

The walls and ceiling were covered in intricately carved wood, etched with floral patterns, vines, and curling grape leaves — crafted with patient, loving hands.

A tall double bed and two plush sofas gave the room a sense of comfort, but the true centerpiece was the candlestick near the entrance: heavy, cast in the form of an angel, and nearly as tall as a man.

There was something about it… something mysterious.

As soon as I started working at the castle, I was told a few ghost stories.

People said they’d seen things.

I’ve never been one to believe in that sort of thing — but I’ll admit, this place has a presence. Especially near the old hundred-year-old lift… and that same angel candlestick.

Its figure looked petrified, as if frozen by age.

A pale patina dulled its surface — from time, perhaps, or maybe from poor upkeep — and it gave off an eerie chill, even when the castle’s temperature was high and steady.

I took the freshly ironed shirt from the laundry and headed to the Sigurd Room, where Matthew was staying at the time.

It’s on the second floor, so I usually took the lift — porters do a lot of walking, and we saved our legs where we could.

Going up, we’d ride. Coming down, we’d take the stairs — especially during peak hours, when the lifts were in constant use. There are two elevators in the castle. The first — the guest lift — is something of a legend: people say it’s the very first electric lift in Scotland, installed back in 1900 by the Otis company.

And honestly, it felt like it. Riding it was like entering a haunted house ride: creaks, jolts, beeps, sudden thuds — and only then would it move… or stop.

I was lucky enough to ride it before its restoration, still running on its century-old motor and original parts. It was an experience — especially when it stopped between floors, creaking so loud it made your heart skip.

The second lift was the service elevator — large, sturdy, built to carry everything that kept the castle running: crates of food, coal, firewood.

That’s the one we used most of the time. The guest lift was for guests and their luggage — or for rare moments when it happened to be closer or more convenient.

That evening, I was on the late shift.

With Easter approaching, the number of guests was growing by the day — and so was the workload.

I grabbed a few freshly ironed shirts and a jacket from the laundry, checked the room label, and hurried off. I wanted to get it delivered before dinner. There were plenty of errands still waiting.

I took the service lift up to the second floor and made my way down the familiar hallway toward the Sigurd Room.

Before entering, we always knock and announce ourselves.

I rapped on the door a few times — no response.

That wasn’t unusual. Guests often spent time in the drawing rooms or out on the terrace. In such cases, we’d open the door slightly and call out, “Hello?” — and if no one answered, we’d leave the clothes folded neatly on the bed or hung in the wardrobe.

The Sigurd Room had an unusual feature: double doors.

First came the outer door, which led into a small vestibule. Beyond that — the second door, which opened into the room itself.

If someone knocked on the outer door, the thick walls and air buffer often muffled the sound completely.

I opened the first door, stepped into the vestibule — and knocked again.

“Hello?” I called a few times.

“Hello!” I said once more, a little louder, and gently pushed the second door open.

I was certain the room was empty.

But as soon as I stepped inside — I froze.

Matthew was standing by the window.

“Sorry,” I said, a bit awkwardly. “Here are your shirts and jacket. Where would you like me to put them?”

As I mentioned earlier, Matthew was a regular guest at the castle. The staff knew people like him well — their habits, their routines, their preferences.

But I was still new, just a few months into the job, and I didn’t know much about him.

He hadn’t been blind from birth. Quite the opposite — his life had been full of adventure, travel, and stories worth telling.

But with age, an inoperable form of cataract began to cloud his vision until, eventually, it took almost all of it.

He could still perceive shadows.

But far more than that — he could see with his soul. And with his heart.

My fellow porters had warned me about Matthew.

They told me to be attentive — sometimes his assistant took time off, and Matthew would be left on his own.

On such days, he mostly stayed in his room, and if he needed anything, he’d call the front desk.

It seemed today was one of those days.

ruth be told, I didn’t know much about him at the time.

My head was filled with one thought: make it to dinner on time.

I even caught myself wondering what was on the menu that evening.

“Just set it on the chair by the table,” he said calmly.

“There’s nothing else for the wardrobe, is there?”

“No, sir,” I replied, then paused, looking into his eyes — trying to tell if there was any sight left in them.

I’d had poor vision since childhood — nearsightedness — but I couldn’t imagine what it was like to see nothing at all.

“Would you mind helping me?” he asked.

“I need to find something in my suitcase. John won’t be here until morning, and I’d rather not wait that long.”

“Do you see a large brown suitcase? It should be on the floor — in the bathroom.”

I stepped into the bathroom and spotted two suitcases beside the wardrobe.

“Yes, I see them. But they’re both brown. I’m guessing the bigger one?”

“That’s the one. Bring it over to the bed, please. And open it.”

I lifted the suitcase. For its size, it was surprisingly heavy.

You know that feeling — when you pick up something small and realize it’s much heavier than expected? That sudden shift in weight tells you: this isn’t wood or cloth. This is something real. Solid. Full.

Carrying luggage was part of the job, so I didn’t think twice — I brought it over, just like he asked.

“Would you mind opening it?” Matthew asked.

“I think I can manage,” I said, half-expecting to find a hidden code lock or clasp — as often happens with these old cases.

I found the zipper tabs and pulled them apart.

The suitcase opened.

At first glance, I thought they were books.

But no — they were journals. Dozens of them. All neatly arranged, worn at the edges.

Matthew had kept every one. Sometimes even two per year.

“Yesss…” he murmured. “There should be one with 1962 written on the cover.”

I leaned over and began sorting through them.

It wasn’t easy. The best approach was to pull out a few at a time and line them up beside me, one after another.

And as I worked through them, something inside me began to stir.

These weren’t just notebooks.

These were years.

Decades.

A life, written to the very margins.

Some journals were thick and heavy, pages crammed with writing.

Others were simpler — stitched together with coarse thread, their covers frayed, the years faded like old ink.

1973,1979…1980…

Then suddenly — 1983.

My birth year.

I froze.

Something inside me caught.

Matthew noticed the silence.

“Did you find 1962?”

“No...” I replied. “I just saw my birth year.”

Matthew chuckled.

“Plenty of people were born while I was busy writing all this,” he said warmly. “I like to record everything.

This suitcase — it’s my life.

My path to the light.”

“What do you think about that?” he asked. “Do you keep a journal?”

“It’s a good idea,” I said. “But mine are long gone. As soon as a new year starts, the old journal goes in the bin. The dates are past, the tasks are done, the notes don’t matter anymore.

What’s the point of keeping what’s already over?”

Matthew smiled. Said nothing for a moment. Then finally:

“You’re not like the others.”

“In what way?” I asked, slightly thrown off.

“Most people try to be liked.

They say what others want to hear.

But you — you say what you actually feel.”

I paused.

And you know what?

He was right.

I’d never tried to impress anyone. I just did my job.

Properly. Honestly. The best I could.

“To me, old journals are just paper,” I said.

“Whatever was written in them — it’s already gone.”

“To me,” he replied softly, “they’re memory.

But not in the literal sense.

They’re… my soul.”

He paused, then added almost in a whisper:

“You know, not everyone meets themselves.

Their true self.

Most people live through years, decades even — without ever realizing the most important thing isn’t the event itself…

It’s how we wait for it.

How we experience it.

And what it leaves behind once it passes.”

“These journals — they’re really just one.

One long journal of the soul.

Because the soul is the only thing that grows with us all our lives.

What you write for the body fades.

But what you write for the soul — stays.”

“Your journals,” he added, “are like shaved-off hair.

You throw away what feels unnecessary.

But I believe — the body forgets.

The soul remembers.

A loud rumble from my stomach suddenly broke the silence.

I glanced down — and there, at the very bottom of the suitcase, I saw it: a cover marked “62.”

I pulled the journal out and handed it to Matthew.

“Found it. Here — 1962.”

He took it as if he were holding a piece of himself.

Ran his fingers along the cover, brushed the edges, and gently thumbed through the worn pages.

“Was it an important year?” I asked, unable to hold the silence.

“Yes,” he said softly. “It was the year of great love…”

Just then, there was a knock at the door.

John — his son — stepped in. He always came a little early to help his father get ready for dinner.

Matthew never liked dining alone. He preferred the shared hall — the very one where Mr. Carnegie himself once took his meals.

“Come see me after dinner, if you feel like it,” Matthew said, turning back to me.

“I think you’d find that year worth hearing about.

I’ve always wanted someone else to know.

Not just my children.

Because it involves more than just me — it touches people who are still around, who don’t really know who I once was.”

I’d love to, sir,” I replied. “But I’ve still got a few things to take care of. Would it be alright if I stopped by later — once my shift is over?”

“Of course. I don’t sleep early,” he said. “I’d be glad for the company.”

I thanked him and stepped out into the hallway.

On the way to the dining room, I realized — curiosity was getting the better of me.

There was something in that year — 1962 — something that mattered deeply to Matthew.

But what was it?

Unspoken love?

A happiness long lost?

Or maybe… something deeper.

Something words could never quite explain.

In my mind, his words kept echoing:

“Not everyone meets themselves.”