Under the bed, nestled amidst dust bunnies and forgotten trinkets, was a small, intricately crafted wooden box. Its surface was adorned with carvings of delicate flowers, interwoven with small hearts and stars. The craftsmanship was unmistakably my daughter’s; she had taken up woodworking in her art class the past year and often brought home such creations, each one more beautiful than the last.
My hands shook as I reached for the box. Its weight was deceptive; it seemed heavier than its size suggested, as if it was burdened with the secrets it contained. I sat back on my heels, taking a deep breath before opening it, unsure of what I would find—or if I was even ready to know.
