She reached up for the wooden box on the very top shelf. It was pushed right to the back of the shelf covered in ten years worth of cobwebs. The box was plain, no ornate design, just a plain wooden box. The dust and cobwebs were untouched. She promised herself she would never open this box.



The box had laid untouched because she had pretended it didn't exist. What the box held was a secret, a memory, something she pretended never happened. Now she was holding this box. The box felt empty, but she knew it wasn't, instead it was full of fourteen years worth of memories. She know how memories felt, they could feel happy, sad, exciting and wonderful, but she didn't know how it felt to hold a memory in your hands. She realised her hands were shaking, she didn't want to open the box.



That one question had changed everything, and she had hoped that question would never be asked. Why was that question asked?



There never seemed to be a right time to get the box down, and there …