The Chest

A faint stream of light pierced the dirty window and traveled along the dusty attic floor. It came to rest at the feet of a young teenage girl who sat surrounded by boxes full of old photographs, musty books, and various trinkets. The dust swirled in the soft gleam of light as she took each object from its cardboard safe and gently wiped it clean. She loved to sit among these old treasures, for they transplanted her into another time—a time where young women dressed up for tea parties and took long carriage rides with their beaus. She imagined that she was one of those pretty young ladies in the black and white photographs, wearing a beautiful dress and sitting properly in the garden. Smiling, she leaned back on her hands and took a deep breath, savoring the warm, musty taste of the air. Of all the rooms in her grandmother’s house, the attic was Jenna’s favorite. It was as if the past still lived there, beckoning her to immerse herself in that world. 

As she looked about the room, her eyes came to rest on an old, wooden chest tucked back in a corner. Barely visible under the dirty white sheet that lay over it, the chest would not have even been noticeable but to a knowing eye. And to Jenna’s eyes, the chest produced an allurement she could not resist. She quickly approached it and flung away its covering. There was nothing spectacular about the piece of furniture. It possessed no intricacies, no innate elegance. The hinges were rusted, making it extremely difficult to open. In fact, it was quite common in every way, and except for the scratches that covered the chest’s top, there were no defining features at all.