The Box Beneath the Chair
As I explored further, I found more traces of me everywhere — small notes, little holiday cards I had written as a child. I used to handwrite them and leave them in people’s mailboxes every Christmas, sometimes adding a sticker or a candy cane.
Under an old armchair near the window, I found a small wooden box. Inside, neatly stacked, were dozens of postcards, handmade cards, and thank-you notes. Every single one was something I had written — long forgotten by me, but treasured by her.
The police officer who accompanied me looked at the collection and shook his head slowly.
“She must’ve really cared about you,” he said quietly. “You were listed as her only contact. No family, no friends. Just you.”
His words hit me like a wave.
All these years, I had thought she lived in complete isolation — a woman untouched by the world. But in truth, she had been holding on to tiny sparks of kindness from a child who once tried to brighten her day.
She had filled her silent life with color — my colors.
