She’d always known the trunk was there. He’d covered it with a cloth; balanced tea, flowers, ashtrays, glasses. Once, she’d perched on it when they’d had more guests than chairs. But that hadn’t happened for a while.
She hadn’t expected to open it that afternoon—she never had before. But boredom and curiosity were a heady mix with the sluggish weather.
Expecting old books, maybe winter clothes from when they’d lived somewhere with seasons, she snapped the clasps.
When they entered her throat, her breath caught on their dust. Terrified, she fell back, her weight crushing the fragile wings of hope.
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