Heart-shaped box

'You're late,' she said. 'I've been waiting for you.'

It's been a long time, I thought. Have you been waiting all these years?

'It doesn't matter', she smiled. 'I'm here for the box.'

What box?

'The box', she patiently repeated.

Oh, I replied. I think I lost it a long time ago.

'No,' she said. 'You still have it. You have to look for it.'

And then I remembered. I had put it in a safe place, buried deep where no-one could find it.

'Where is it?' she asked.

Suddenly I could feel a shape and presence, and the memory of it's form almost felt solid in my gut.

'What does it look like?' She was smiling.

It's Dad's old money box, I said in a half daze. A small brown wooden chest with heavy metal hinges and an equally heavy lock. The sides were scuffed and worn, but the lid always remained firmly closed.

'What's inside?' she asked.

Long nights alone, I wanted to say. Long days alone too. Everything that was too heavy to be lifted, and too frightful to share. Everything I wanted to forget, and everything I needed to remember. For something that lay untouched for so long, the thought of disturbing it now was too terrifying to consider.

'You have to open the box,' she urged.

But I'm scared.

'Open the box,' she repeated. 'Let it out,' she said, and slowly I felt the hinges give way.

Who are you? I asked, and she smiled the same smile and said 'I think you know'.

We sat for a while and said nothing. The box was now empty, it's secrets returned to their rightful place. I felt heavier, and lighter, and awake, and wondered how I could have forgotten it for so long. Perhaps the former contents were only noticeable when restored.

Can you see it? I asked. But when I turned around, she was gone.