The list of sinners

...Celia...

Although it was that period to feel excited about a new year or to set new objectives for oneself, for me this beautiful feeling was overshadowed by another more dominant feeling, as something was going to happen in a certain way today. Whether it was good or bad, it would happen.

Lately, I had been busy preparing something. I was using my knitting talent to make something truly simple but with the cold weather in Connecticut, it was necessary. I was knitting a wool scarf in a beige color as a thank you gift for the care Donovan showed towards me.

As I knit the scarf, I could hear the gentle taps of the knitting needles, as if they were having a conversation with the gray wool threads. The knitting needles were the paradox themselves, where the delicate touch seemingly produced so much warmth in the life of the one who would wear this scarf.

I managed to finish it before the thirtieth of December. I ran and carefully wrote a note. I placed it in a small cardboard box and tied a red ribbon around it. I gave it a final look, feeling happy with what I had achieved in the end.

"I'm going out," I said, holding the box in my hand.

"I thought you would help me with my study today to organize it while I go out to run errands," he told me.

"I'll send this by mail because I can't go myself," I said, showing him the package.

"And what is that?" my father asked.

"A gift for a friend," I said.

"For a friend, huh?!"

I shook my head lightly, feeling awkward from his questioning tone.

"I'm just kidding, Celia, come on, deliver that package now. And don't forget to take the key with you."

"Without a doubt," I said, putting on my shoes. "I'll take care of the study as soon as I return."

"Alright, alright," my dad said, smiling.

I put on my jacket and hurried out to reach the post office. The good thing was that I wouldn't deliver it personally, but despite this fact, I felt nervous about this simple gift for someone who had a very large house with a Scandinavian style, completed from a to z.

"And now sign here," the postal worker said.

I signed where the worker pointed and headed home. I couldn't leave my father to organize his study alone, even if he insisted, as he had to maintain the house all the time while I was away. Ultimately, cleaning and organizing were a therapy in themselves. There was a tranquility in it, not forgetting the gentle sound of the vacuum cleaner removing the dust fallen on the floor.

My father's study wasn't that big, although recently it had become a bit messy, but after that mess, there was nothing else hidden except two wooden shelves and a work table. But the beauty of those shelves was nothing else but the works filling them.

While organizing, I noticed a plum-colored velvet box sitting on a shelf, hidden behind a large white curtain. With a chair, I managed to grab and bring it down. I was very curious to know what was inside, but first, even though my mind was on that box, I needed to finish organizing.

As soon as I made sure everything was clean and in place, I gathered the cleaning tools quickly and took them to the bathroom. With the box in my hands, I rushed to my room and laid it on the floor. With my eyes, I scanned that box in every corner, accompanied by a light touch of my hand.

I carefully opened the velvet-covered box. A light dust scent filled the air. Everything in that box seemed to have slept for a long time under that dust, eagerly waiting for the day for someone to uncover it.

Inside the box, under the dust-covered lid, a whole past was awakened that could only belong to a beautiful heart. It was a memory box. In it, there was a treasure trove of memories starting from old photos, a poetry book, pieces cut from early movie premiere newspapers, and an empty perfume bottle.

"This box is mom's," I said, taking a photo of her when she was young with her sister.

All those things belonged to her. Her whole past was encapsulated in a small square. My father had kept that box hidden for a long time, even making it forgotten for me. After her death, my father searched for my mom desperately in every corner of the house. For several consecutive nights when I couldn't sleep, I remember how my father held me tight and, wrapped in a blanket, told me the tale of the Sun and the Moon that my mom had created for me. He tried hard for me not to feel her absence so much, but despite his efforts, no one could replace her.

After the introspection I weighed from the pieces in that box, I decided to look inside again. I took the box, which surprisingly still felt heavy. I opened the box once again, checking all corners of the box, but it now seemed empty. I brought the box close to my ear, shaking it back and forth to hear a sound. From the end of it came a muffled sound of something hitting the sides of the box.

"Wait a minute," I said. "What if the box has a false bottom?"

I decided to trust this thought and put it into practice. With both hands clenched into fists, I exerted force only on one side of the box. The bottom of the box lifted like a trapdoor. It seemed the box had two bottoms and the true one hid something else. I removed the false bottom, which was nothing but a piece of cardboard covered with tape, and looked inside. At the bottom, there was nothing else but a seemingly simple notebook that had a dark green leather cover, adorned on all four sides with detailed embossed leaf patterns.

"It looks like some kind of diary or something," I said, bringing it out from the back.

Aside from the notebook, I threw all the other items back into the box, giving it a push directly under the bed. I wiped the clothes from the dust stains that had clung to me from the box. I decided to tell my father about this as he most likely wouldn't have known.

I left the room with the diary in hand and headed towards the living room where I hoped to find my father. My stride was interrupted by his masculine voice coming from the bedroom. It seemed like he was talking to someone. I decided to head over there.

The bedroom door wasn't fully closed, just slightly ajar. As far as I could see, I caught a glimpse of my father talking to someone on the phone. He was pacing back and forth and talking animatedly. Something seemed to be bothering him.

"I thought this was settled," I heard him say. "What?! No, no, it's not possible today because I'm not at home. Tomorrow, yes, tomorrow I'll come there. I insist on coming alone as I don't want to involve my daughter in this matter, please. I don't know how she'll handle it. Thank you!"

I stepped back from the door, holding my breath, trying not to be startled to give my brain an accurate command. The only thing that came instinctively was to run back to the room and shut myself inside. I clutched my mother's diary tighter than before, curling up. That conversation seemed like it would change the course of our lives, killing me every day more and more, taking away the peace that was once my own.

"Dad, what have you done?"