The house was quiet later, save for the wet wind rattling the loose pane in the kitchen window. I walked into my bedroom and pulled the key from the inside of my jewelry box.
In the corner, under a stack of winter blankets, sat the heavy cedar chest my grandfather had built. It was the only thing I had left that Ryan hadn’t touched.
Inside lay the silver initials bracelet Ryan had left on the kitchen counter the night he vanished, its scratched latch loose and fragile.
I knelt on the floorboards, holding the small brass key in my palm.
The brass lock plate on the front of the chest was freshly scratched, the bright yellow metal showing through the dark lacquer.
I slid the key into the lock, but the cylinder turned too easily, the bolt already thrown back.
The lid rose without a sound, and I stared down at the scratched lock of my cedar chest in the dim light.
