Corrosive

5:22 PM

I hesitate outside her door. This was always her sanctuary. I was forbidden from entering. And now I am about to violate her privacy in a way she would never allow me to do.

But she left me the message. That's permission enough.

I wrap a hand around the door handle and fling it open. Before I can lose my cool I step inside and slam the door behind me.

Her smell wafts around me. and I'm glad I slammed the door. I imagine her smell, this last remnant of her, escaping down the corridor and filling the house. Dispersing and losing its strength. Becoming nothing more than air as she becomes nothing more than earth after the burial.

My vision shakes and blurs, and my knees weaken and I fall on them. I curl my arms around my midriff and lean forward until my forehead presses into the pile of her carpet. Her smell is deeply embedded in it, and I cry. I'm saddened when I remember how, a week before she died, she asked me into her room to ask which of three outfits she'd laid out on her bed was the best. I got her to describe them to me in her own words, and picked the one that had the most positive sounding words attached to it. I'd complained about the smell to her then.

I let myself cry, then stop myself. With a deep stuttering breath, I sit up, and with another, I stand on my feet.

I scrub my eyes with the heels of my palms, then gaze around the room. Everything is neat and tidy, as she always kept it that way. 'Everything has a place,' she'd say.

No. Don't cry again. Where could something be hidden here?

Under the bed, is one option. I cross and kneel, then lie down and wriggle underneath. But nothing. No dangers, no answers- not even a mothball. I sigh and look up.

When I was about six, Mill and I played Hide and Go Seek a lot. One rainy summer's day I ran in here with a pen and hid under the bed. A bit obvious, really, in a tidy room.

In the process I had spotted her wardrobe in the corner, and thought 'What a great place to hide!' Apparently I had a short memory when I was about six, because I decided to draw an arrow pointing in the direction of Mill's wardrobe to remind me. Mill came in as I was finishing scratching it out, and investigated to see what it was.

Smiling a little, I now draw an imaginary line to the wardrobe I never hid in. Through the gaps between the slats in the door I see a box.

I scramble out from under the bed, run to the wardrobe,fling it open and fall to my knees. Her smell wafts out again, and I'm glad I fell, because my knees are dead weights. With shaking hands, I pull the box out. It's a shoebox, and it's light. On the lid two words are written. Danger Box. And it was hidden, in the wardrobe. I open the lid.

The first thing is a scarf she knitted two years ago but never wore. I gently unwrap it. Beneath is a tattered old copy. I lift it and open the first page.

There's a code along the top of the page, which I vaguely recognise. After the code is a list of hiding places. Every single one is crossed out- except the last one. Behind the bookcase.

I examine the code one more time, and it hits me. This is a code Mill and I invented when we were kids, about six, so we could send secret messages to each other. We stopped using it when Milly was nine because it made her feel 'childish'. It stuns me to see it here, now.

I take a picture on my phone and pack the things away. Closing the wardrobe, I stand and cross to the bookcase. It's full of books.

Okay, the centre of gravity will be low because of the weight, so I need to pull the bottom. If I pull the top it will fall over onto me. I crouch down, get my fingers behind and pull. It moves.