Mika
As I quietly stepped into my father's dimly lit room, the air was thick with dust motes dancing in the shafts of light filtering through the half-drawn curtains.
I felt a strange nostalgia wash over me as I approached the old box away beneath my father's bed, a treasure trove of memories belonging to my mother. Its weathered surface was a patchwork of scratches and fading paint, hinting at years of neglect.
I cautiously opened the lid and began sifting through the cherished items inside—frayed photographs, handwritten letters, and delicate trinkets, each a whisper of her presence. Moments passed in a tranquil reverence. I assumed my father had left the house, granting me a rare moment of solitude.
But as I immersed myself in the bittersweet memories, a sudden chill enveloped the
