Story - The Box on the Porch

She found the box on the porch after the rain.

It was not a box she recognised. Wooden, the size of a shoebox, with a glass front. Inside: a stone, a key, a photograph of a room she did not remember.

She brought it inside and set it on the kitchen table.

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The stone was grey and smooth, the size of a thumb. She picked it up. It was warm, as if it had been held.

She put it back. The warmth stayed in her palm.

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The key was brass, tarnished, the teeth worn smooth. It did not fit any lock in the house. She tried every door. It turned in none.

She put it back. The key stayed in her hand.

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The photograph showed a room with a window. The window was open. Through it, she could see a porch. On the porch, a box. The box was the size of a shoebox, with a glass front.

She looked at the box on her kitchen table. She looked at the photograph. The box in the photograph was open. Inside: a stone, a key, a photograph of a room with a window.

She did not open the box again.

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She put the box on the porch after the next rain.

It was not a box she recognised. Wooden, the size of a shoebox, with a glass front. Inside: a stone, a key, a photograph of a room she did not remember.

She left it there.

The rain stopped. The sun came through. The light passed through the glass and touched the stone, the key, the photograph.

The box was not a box. It was a frame around the light.

She did not open it again.