Jonathan stood at the base of the attic ladder, staring up at the dust-covered abyss like a man about to face his own mortality.
Lex, perfectly relaxed, leaned against the wall with a fresh cup of coffee. "You don't have to do this, you know."
Jonathan shot him a murderous glare."Yes, I do. Because if I don't, I'll lie awake at night wondering if you have a missing Monet stuffed in a trunk next to Christmas decorations."
Lex smirked. "You're assuming I decorate for Christmas."
Jonathan muttered something under his breath before grabbing the ladder and climbing up.
The attic was worse than he expected.
Not in condition—the space itself was well-kept, dust aside. But in quantity.
There were boxes. Vintage suitcases and trunks. Portfolios. Stacks of frames leaning against the walls and this was after they had move the created boxes.
Jonathan exhaled slowly."This is an inventory nightmare."
He turned, scanning the labels—some marked, some blank, some with vague, infuriating notes like 'Vivian's Favorites' or 'To Sort Later.'
Jonathan rubbed his temples. "You've got to be kidding me."
Behind him, Lex climbed up leisurely, hands in his pockets. "Find anything fun?"
Jonathan pointed at a heavily locked trunk in the corner. "Tell me that's not something valuable."
Lex followed his gaze. Paused.
Then, with obnoxious ease, he walked over and popped the lock open.
Jonathan's eye twitched. "You mean to tell me you've had the key this whole time?"
Lex shrugged. "Didn't seem important until now."
Jonathan gritted his teeth. "Latham. Open the damn trunk."
Lex smirked. Then lifted the lid.
And Jonathan immediately wished he had more coffee.
Inside were notebooks. Stacks of them.
Handwritten. Old. The pages yellowed, the ink still crisp. Some were in English, others in Chinese, a few in French.
Jonathan flipped one open—his breath catching.
The handwriting was Vivian Maddox's.
Personal notes. Sketches. Letters.
He flipped to another—Mei Lei's calligraphy practice journals.
Another—a travel diary from 1952.
And then—a final stack, bound together with an old silk ribbon.
Jonathan untied it, turning the first page.
His blood ran cold.
It wasn't Vivian. Or Mei Lei.
It was a letter from Lei Yongzhi.
A primary account from one of the most renowned literary scholars of the late Qing Dynasty.
Jonathan let out a sharp, disbelieving laugh."You've been sitting on historical documents."
Lex sipped his coffee. "Looks like it."
Jonathan pressed his fingers to his temple. "I hate you."
Lex grinned. "No, you don't. Now bag it up."
Jonathan stared at the stack of letters like they were about to catch fire.
Then, instead of speaking, he just turned and yanked open another truck.
Lex smirked over the rim of his coffee. "You're not even pretending to pace yourself anymore."
Jonathan didn't dignify that with a response. Instead, he ripped through the layers of protective wrapping—then froze.
Lex raised a brow. "Another nightmare?"
Jonathan dragged a hand down his face."Latham. This is an entire box of early 20th-century Chinese scrolls."
Lex hummed, glancing over as Jonathan carefully unrolled one. The ink was aged but still sharp, a collection of classical poetry accompanied by delicate paintings.
Jonathan stared at the signature. "…Wu Changshuo."
Lex sipped his coffee. "Good name."
Jonathan gave him a look."'Good name'? He's one of the most influential Chinese painters of the modern era." He scanned another scroll, then another—Qi Baishi, Zhang Daqian, Fu Baoshi.
Jonathan let out a sharp, borderline hysterical laugh."Latham, do you realize what you've been sitting on?"
Lex tilted his head. "Judging by your reaction… something valuable?"
Jonathan looked like he wanted to throw something. "This is a lost archive. These aren't just stray pieces—this is a curated collection that someone deliberately stored away."
Lex leaned against a stack of crates, utterly unbothered."Then it's a good thing you checked."
Jonathan ignored him, moving on to another crate—this time a flat, wide box. He flipped it open, inhaled sharply.
Old photographs.
Stacks of original glass negatives, sepia-toned portraits, candid moments from another era.
Jonathan carefully lifted one, holding it to the light. "This is… 1920s? Maybe earlier."
Lex leaned in, eyes flicking over the images. "My great-grandfather kept a lot of records."
Jonathan exhaled. "Clearly." He flipped through more—aerial shots of old Beijing, photographs of scholars, letters pressed between pages.
Then—a silk-wrapped bundle beneath the photos.
Jonathan slowly unwrapped it—then let out a sharp, disbelieving exhale.
Lex smirked. "What now?"
Lex smirked, watching Jonathan's increasingly frazzled expression. "What now?"
Jonathan didn't answer immediately. He was too busy peeling back another layer of history.
This time, it wasn't just art.
Old leather-bound trunks. Stacks of vintage letters. Silk-wrapped documents.
Lex glanced over the collection, not surprised in the slightest."Mostly vintage."
Jonathan slowly turned to him. "Define 'mostly.'"
Lex tapped the side of one of the trunks. "This house belonged to Mei Lei before my mother inherited it."
Jonathan's fingers tightened slightly on the lid."…And?"
Lex shrugged. "And she never threw anything away. It's a chinese thing."
Jonathan inhaled deeply—the kind of breath one takes before preparing for emotional damage. He carefully flipped open one of the older wooden chests.
Inside—delicately preserved robes, silk journals, hand-carved combs, and ink stones worn smooth from use.
Jonathan traced a finger over a small, elegant box tucked in the corner. He carefully lifted the lid, inside was a jade hairpin.
The light hit it just right, revealing tiny calligraphy inscriptions etched along the curve of the piece. Jonathan squinted, scanning the delicate engravings.
"A poem." His voice was almost distant. "It's signed… Lei Yongzhi."
Lex hummed, completely unbothered. "Sounds about right."
Jonathan's head snapped up."You're telling me your great-grandfather engraved poetry onto jade accessories?"
Lex exhaled, smirking slightly. "Calligraphy was an everyday practice for him."
Jonathan stared at him, then back at the collection. "Latham. This isn't just personal history. This is a private archive of early 20th-century Chinese cultural artifacts."
Lex raised a brow. "And?"
Jonathan exhaled sharply. "And you just had this sitting in your attic like old tax records."
Lex chuckled, stepping past him to another trunk. "Relax. It's been up here for decades. Another day won't kill it."
Jonathan ran a tired hand down his face. "You're impossible."
Lex smirked. "And yet, you keep coming back."
It took two more hours before the attic was finally emptying.
Crates sealed. Scrolls wrapped. Trunks cataloged. The Met team moved efficiently, loading the last of the unexpected treasures onto the transport vans bound for the gallery and museum.