Creaking footsteps on the worn wooden steps announce the intruder in the silence of the evening. The tarnished brass handle is cold to her touch and stiff at the turning. The door squeaks on its hinges and falls inwards as if inviting its visitor to proceed. The room is dark save for a stream of light from the skylight. The sun is setting and the hazy warm orange glow guides her eyes across the jumble. The stillness of the room tells of its history, unused and solitary, guarding its treasures. Each footstep whispers to the silence, echoing off the walls, speaking to the room and the room speaking back. The air is heavy and thick with the smell of some long forgotten memory of the house. It envelops its guest, holding her in that moment, in the half light. Fingers tracing the dusty lines and hollow corners of the contents of the room. She knew what she was looking for, buried deep under lampshades and manuals. Hidden in the back where it couldn’t stare at her with all its knowing. Since she had heard the news from a friend she could feel it calling her, beating and pulsing and drawing her attention away. She moves the debris of the past tentatively out of the way. Hands feel for the dusty, heavy weight of the box. Just an old shoe box, cardboard and ink, damp to the touch. At first she just holds the box, appreciating its weight and watches the dust float and fall in the fading light. Then as if by some realization she steps and turns back towards the light of the stairway. The steps creak in protest of her weight as she sits down on the top step. She runs her fingertips over the edges and along the lid. She can feel the anticipation buzzing as if from the box itself, its contents ready to explode out and create from within all of the feelings that writers and poets alike describe. Buried so long ago and calling to her ever since, full of happiness, horror, longing, fright and worst of all: remembering.