What I Wished Not To Keep

It is a universal truth that a hunk has it hung.

A vintage dial phone began to ring atop a wooden counter. Steadily but languidly, a figure approached from the hallway, the dim light of the gaslight sconce casting shallow shadows across the surroundings.

Their hand reached the dial and plucked the handset to their ear.

“Yes?” the figure said, their fingers fidgeting with the wire.

“I understand, so this evening?... No? Okay...” he chuckled.

“Hold on... You're outside?” the figure turned slightly to peek at the window.

“Why did I look outside the window? How did you know that?” they turned back to the phone and spotted a note right next to the dial.

The figure picked the paper and read the words, “I am in your walls... How are you breathing inside my wall? And aren't you supposed to be outside? Hullo?”

The handset beeped as the other side had already cut the dial.

The figure set the handset down with a weary groan, only to be interrupted by the sound of the doorbell. He immediately strode toward the source, paying no mind to the note as it fluttered down beside the counter.

Upon reaching in front of the entrance, he pulled open the door, revealing a formally dressed man in black.

“Good morning, Mister Qwell,” the man in black said solemnly, looking directly at the Qwell.

“It's Afternoon,” Mister Qwell responded, nodding his head in an air-quote-ish way, before attempting to push the door toward the suited individual.

“It's the same thing,” the suited man replied, holding the door steady with one arm.

“No it's not—what the?” Mister Qwell blurted out, only to realize the man had vanished, he spun around and found the man right next to his sofa.

“Well well well, well. Quite a beauty you've got here. Pity; for I'll be taking it for my investigation,” the man said, his hand on the sofa gently petting it.

Mister Qwell left the door as it was and hurried next to the man. “You can't just enter my house at your own will—”

“Well, well, well, well, looks like I've uncovered your dirty little secret,” the man drawled, raising a note that read I am suspect.

“Funny—now where did that come from?” he remarked, casting a look of disappointment at Mister Qwell.

Mister Qwell heaved a sigh and prepared to speak up, but he noticed the man had vanished once more. Turning around, he spotted him crouched beside the telephone counter, clutching a piece of paper in his hand.

“How on earth did you get over there?” Mister Qwell exclaimed, his tone a mix of surprise and exasperation.

“It matters not, for I have found my prime suspect,” the man declared, a gleeful smirk spreading across his face.

“What? That hardly makes any sense—to place all the blame upon me,” Mister Qwell protested, striving to defend himself against the allegations.

“Oh, well then—why was there a conveniently placed note next to the counter that read I am suspect?” the man asked.

“I swear, I quite literally didn’t see it there,” Mister Qwell said, shaking his head as he spoke.

“Cutter, butter, line, cutter, pumpkin eater,” the man said, slowly enunciating each word.

“I think you meant liar, liar, pants on fire—”

“Doesn't matter, but could you tell me what you could comprehend from the note?” the man said, raising the chit of paper to eye level.