Shoebox

by Dorit d'Scarlett

Wind moans through the loose boards of the walls, a sound familiar for decades. It was gentler once, playful, but now it’s like mourning. Dust settles thicker each day, softening the lines of her life. She’s gone. My Clara. And I am empty without her.

The kitchen is my heart, and hers too, I think. The kettle sits silent on the stovetop, its copper dulled, the handle a little loose from years of use. How many mornings did she stand there, waiting for its whistle, cradling a mug of tea between her hands as sunlight painted the benchtop into a glare? A cracked plate still rests on the counter. She’d always meant to fix it.

Rain hammers on the tin roof, the air heavy, moisture expanding the timbers so they creak.

In the sitting room, her armchair leans slightly, the fabric worn to threads on the arms where her fingers would tap, her thoughts somewhere distant. The old record player still stands in the corner, its needle silent, like everything else. I can almost hear her hum along to the warbled tunes of Johnny Cash.

The sky darkens, the rain harder now, drumming faster against the roof. It’s coming.

Her bedroom holds the scent of lavender, faint but stubborn, clinging to the emptiness like a memory refusing to fade. The quilt on the bed is frayed at the edges, a patchwork of her life in fabric – a scrap from her mother’s dress, another from her father’s old shirt. She pieced it together in the evenings, her hands busy, her mind far away.

Thunder booms, vibrates through walls and floor. Rain pounds, driven by a wind that rattles the windows. The creek down the hill swells, roaring in the way of a thousand madmen until I shake. It won’t hold for long.

The hallway leads to the smallest room, the one that held her secrets. A shoebox rests on the desk, its edges soft from years of handling. She’d sit here often, her hands lingering over the lid before tucking it away, unopened. I don’t know what’s inside. She never let me see. Clara never left things undone. She wasn’t one for mysteries. Yet this box—this single thing—remains sealed. And now she’s gone.

Sometimes, in the quiet hours just before dawn, she would sit with her head bowed over the box, her shoulders trembling. I could feel the weight of her sadness, the way it seeped into everything and, afterwards, lingered in the air. Her tears would drip onto the floor, soaking into the grain as if it was drinking her sorrow. I wanted to hold her, to comfort her, but all I could do was offer silence, warmth, shield her from the outside world that had hurt her so deeply. And when she finally lifted her head, wiped her face, and whispered, ‘I’m sorry,’ I wanted to ask—for what?—but I never could.

The walls ache as the flood rushes closer, the ground beneath me trembling with the weight of the storm. Water seeps in through the cracks, licking at the corners of her rooms, reaching for the pieces of her life I’ve kept safe.

The shoebox.

I can’t protect it. Water rises too fast, surging through the hallway, pulling the chair from her desk. It slams against the wall, the shoebox tipping, falling open as the current grabs it. Photographs spill out, faces and moments scattering across the murky water.

A photo floats into the light.

Its edges curl in the wet, but her image remains clear. Clara, standing beside a young girl. Her hair is darker, her smile tentative. She’s holding the girl’s hand, their similarity unmistakable.

The girl’s face is hers, too. Younger, softer, but the same curve of the jaw, the same light in her eyes. A daughter.

She never told me.

Floodwaters pull at the photo, but it clings to the edge of a windowsill, defiant. For a moment, everything is still. The rain eases, the roar of the creek quiets. The storm has spent itself, leaving me swollen and soaked and shivering.

As the water recedes, leaving mud and chaos in its wake, I hold onto what I’ve found. Clara isn’t lost. She’s somewhere out there, with her daughter. Maybe that’s why she never came back. She found something better—someone better.

The wind sweeps through again, softer this time, drying the damp corners of my rooms. I can let her go now. Not because I want to, but because she belongs where she is.

And I will stay, holding the echoes of her life in the walls that once held her.