The little chest held so many things. Unsent letters with huge blotches of black ink slashing across their hapless, longing words. The dried remains of a flower, a once gentle gesture reduced to a thin, crumbling memory; it’s stiff and brown and dead, decaying from the moment it was picked. A child’s toy, the soft fabrics faded with sun and well-worn seams bursting forth to reveal white insides; it hadn’t been held in years. A bracelet, made by small hands and baring the polish of loving caresses, passed between children with shy smiles when the world was still wholesome and hopeful. And most of all, the wooden box held the sharp, bleeding corners of a broken heart. The container patiently cradling the jagged pieces and waiting for time to dry the gore and dull the edges.
The chest nearly missed an ending by fire, and dodged being lain in a grave under a half burnt cherry tree with the ghosts of lanterns still gleaming underneat