The sound in my head is a creaking, oil-less sound. Or more a rustle of dry leaves. If you unscrewed the top and looked in, you’d see grey drop cloths, cobwebs, a bouquet of bare stems, a doll with a drooping eyelid, a water stained book, a fine layer of dust settled evenly over everything.
Wait, was that something moving in the shadows in the corner?
Did you feel a chill?
The wind whips up out of nowhere. Dust is in your nose and eyes. Beneath the dust is more evidence: old ticket stubs, something dressed in fragile tissue, a wing, a carved heart, a leather glove, a walking stick, a pair of scissors shaped like a swan.
There’s some ancient memory here, too. A remembering that has something to do with a cooing laugh, and the shurring of runners on snow, and the crinkling of a sheet of paper as it goes up in flames.
This bony box holds every part of the universe. Everything in it is old, worn, nearly beautiful in its decrepitude.
This box has been sealed shut for ages. It’s high time we opened it.
Grongar 