“Following the funeral of our 15-year-old daughter, my husband was adamant that I remove…”
Under the bed, tucked into a dusty corner long neglected, sat a small wooden box that seemed to hold decades of untold stories. Its surface was scarred and worn, the edges rounded by time and handling, and the rusted hinges resisted my touch as if guarding the secrets inside.
My heart raced as I lifted it from its resting place. The sound of the box scraping against the floorboards echoed unnaturally, filling the quiet room with tension. The air smelled faintly of aged wood, dust, and something more intangible — a lingering trace of memory, of presence, of life once vibrant in that space.
Kneeling beside the bed, I lifted the lid. Inside was a world my daughter had quietly built for herself, a life lived in secret alongside the one we had known. Though the box was small, it overflowed with intention and emotion, each item carefully preserved.
