Beneath the velvet lay a folded sheet of yellowed paper and a small brass key, taped flat against the wood. Lucy unfolded the page with careful fingers and began to read aloud. “To whoever finds this, I hid it here for the one who would treat this box with love.” Carla stepped closer, her face stiff. Lucy’s voice shook as she read the next line. “Margaret, if you are reading this, then I never got the chance to tell you in person.”
I felt my breath leave me. That was my name, in my husband’s handwriting. Lucy looked up at me with wide eyes, and the whole room turned in my direction. “Grandma,” she whispered, “what does this key open?” I did not answer, because I had spent fifteen months wondering the same thing. Then Carla reached out and snatched the key from Lucy’s palm, and I rose from my chair for the first time that day.
