The cottage on the west coast where we’d spent our childhood summers, was gifted to Eve; your savings, accumulated through a lifetime of avarice, went to Sam.
Reading from the will, the executor looked embarrassed to say that I’d inherited your wooden treasure box; the ugly shell-covered one you kept on the fireplace, decorated with cockles and periwinkles, varnished to preserve it from dust and soot.
I’d never know what you kept in it, though I’d always been curious. I hoped for a valuable family heirloom—a brooch or a ring for example.
But it was empty, just like your heart.
“(I write) to lay memories to rest.” – the writer