THE BOX OF FORGOTTEN PROMISES
For a while now, Grace had started to suspect that someone else was living in their house besides just her and her husband. No it wasnt a ghost. In her mind, ghosts were serious beings: if they were to appear, they certainly wouldnt bother themselves with trivialities.
But this this was pure domestic mischief. Some sort of house spirit, perhaps.
It began with her favourite running socks going missing, one at a time, of course. It would have made sense had they vanished in the wash every housewife knows such things happen. But these, white with a red stripe, always seemed to catch her eye in her drawer, almost reproachfully: when was the last time you wore us?
And then, suddenly, they werent there. First one disappeared, and the next day the other.
A week later, they resurfaced. In the very same drawer. Curled up like snails. On top was a scrappy bit of grey paper, with printed letters a bit skewed:
You forgot us for 127 days. We were counting.
Your doing? she demanded of her husband, David, who was peacefully scrolling through the news on his phone. Is this supposed to be a hint that Im getting out of shape and ought to get back to exercising?
He only looked at her in confusion, absolutely denying any involvement.
If you say so Grace muttered, though she didnt entirely believe him. David was notorious for his practical jokes.
Then her favourite hairclip went missing the one that always sat atop the hallway mirror. And her expensive special occasion lipstick, which she kept in her handbag, vanished too.
She found them both in the kitchen cupboard, nestled between bags of rice and spaghetti. Both had notes attached.
On the clip:
Maybe make your mind up do you want long hair or short? Its tiresome, being left forgotten for ages then suddenly missed.
On the lipstick:
So, when exactly was this fabled special occasion? At this rate, Ill dry out completely.
This isnt funny any more, Grace hissed, shaking Davids shoulder as he dozed on the sofa waiting for lunch.
Have you lost your mind? he spluttered. Why would I play such a daft trick on myself?!
It was a fair point. Her husband wasnt an idiot, and an anxious feeling crept into Graces mind.
She began making mental notes where she put each item, sometimes double- and triple-checking. She even visited the doctor. After the tests, the elderly GP laughed and told her her memory was better than his.
Still, things kept vanishing.
Her favourite pens. The striped blouse. Hand cream.
And, as the grand finale, the keys to their cottage in the countryside an incident David wouldnt let her forget for a week.
Grace became jumpy. Her sleep suffered; every rustle made her start, and she constantly rechecked the locations of her phone, keys, and purse.
But that Saturday, things got stranger than ever.
Shed decided to finally tackle the wardrobe it was long overdue. In an empty boot box, she suddenly found nearly everything that had gone missing. All laid out neatly, as if in a secondhand shop window.
The striped blouse, wrapped around a short pleated skirt. Note:
Do you even remember how to dance?
Pens, arranged by colour:
You chew us when youre nervous. Were tired of living in tension.
Keys, laced together on a fob, almost as though holding hands:
We just got bored and went wandering you never visit the countryside anymore. Still, unlike some, we came back on our own.
Grace was baffled.
There was something sly, wise, and quietly melancholy about the scraps of writing as if shed authored them herself, but in an alternate life where she had time to talk to her possessions.
Just as she was about to shut the box, she noticed one more small, grey square tucked in the corner. This one didnt come with any item. Only a note.
The letters looked as if theyd been written by trembling hands, blurred a little, as though teardrops had smudged them:
You promised that girl in the mirror youd become an artist.
I am that girl.
And its lonely here, in the box with forgotten promises and hopes that never came true.
Grace sat on the wardrobe floor for a long time, leaning against the overstuffed shelves, lost in memories.
A hazy recollection of herself in nursery school, tongue poking out in concentration as she drew a house, a sun, and her parents with her little sister.
Her first art lesson at school, the thrill of watercolours spreading over damp paper.
The smell of oil paints at the afterschool art club. The hush of museums. Each brushstroke like a magical melody. The lecturers ringing explanations.
At first, shed imagined this would be her whole life.
Later, a hobby. A harmless escape.
After that
Nothing.
Not because shed run out of time but because shed kept putting it off for later, always finding something more essential, more urgent, until that warm feeling of anticipation vanished, just like the socks, pens, and keys.
Her finger traced over the last note.
She thought the paper felt warm warmer than all the others, and just slightly shaking. Or maybe her hands were trembling.
Was an extra hour at the shopping centre or another detective novel really more important than a dream?
That night, Grace tossed and turned. Sleep evaded her. At two in the morning, she finally crept out of bed with a sigh.
Where are you off to? David mumbled sleepily.
Go back to sleep, she whispered.
Somewhere in those wardrobe boxes, Ive seen my old paints, Grace thought, and passing the hall mirror, she caught the gaze of that same little girl. Hesitant. But hopeful.
