Sara could remember seeing The Chest in her aunt’s hallway for years.
It had never moved, and now here it was in her own bedroom having been bequeathed to her at her passing.

It was ancient, battered and gouged, with a rusted lock that looked as if it might disintegrate altogether in the wind. It didn’t match any of her decor, and looked totally out of place, yet it was achingly familiar.
She fingered the envelope in her hand, feeling the shape of a key inside.

Sara couldn’t remember anyone having opened the chest, or even a discussion of what lay within. Was it a mish mash of tweeds, twinsets and pearls, clumpy shoes from yesteryear, or just piles of paper or books?
Nothing had rattled when the delivery guys had carried it in, and now sitting on the bed  rubbing the key through the envelope, she thought about her late aunt…

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