I look at what's in my hand.
It's one of those old miniature troll dolls, this one with bright green hair that's now matted and covered in dust.
I must have hid it in the wall as a kid, so it must have mattered to me once, but I don't really remember it particularly. I set it on the bathroom floor and reach into the hole again. This time I pull out a red third-place ribbon, then next a plastic watch with a blank LCD screen, and finally a dusty charm bracelet which I actually remember because my sister gave it to me for my seventh birthday.
It's sort of amusing to have discovered this time capsule from my childhood, but, really, everything I've found is mostly junk. There's nothing in this small pile of trinkets that explains why I've been so obsessed with the bathroom sink.
I reach into the hole again, but now I feel nothing but dust and plaster. I reach to the left as far as I can, but I feel nothing. Then I reach to the right and twist my arm to extend my hand as far as it will go. The tip of my finger grazes one last object. I grab it and pull it out of the hole.
It's a box. A cigarette box, I think.
It's not a regular cigarette box, though. This one is made of thick laminated cardboard and has a hinged clamshell lid. It's fancy, almost like a jewelry box. I blow off the dust. The label says: Sherman's MCD Luxury Cigarettes.
I've never smoked. Never. So why would there be a cigarette box hidden in a hole in the wall that only I have ever known about?
I shake the box gently. It doesn't feel like there are any cigarettes inside. But something is. Something rolls around loosely and taps against the box's inner wall.
I hold the candle close. It's almost burnt out. Hot wax drips down my palm. The flame is faint and growing blue.
I set the cigarette box on the bathroom floor.
Very slowly, I open the lid.
And when I see what's inside, everything I'd forgotten about last summer starts to flood back into my memory.
