The dark ebony wood glistened in the firelight. The box was medium sized, not much bigger than a breadbox, and engraved on the sides with Celtic designs, and hearts.
"Where? How?" her voice cracked as she spoke, a silent tear rolling down her cheek.
"It was in a safe box, in the garage. You were dealing with so much back then, I could not just say this was all that was left. I waited until the right time, and now is that time," his hand reached out, wiping away the tear as her knuckles turned white with remembrance.
The beams supporting the house were blackened, covered in soot, and scorched by flames. The cherry hardwood floors they had fallen in love with were soot covered, and scorched. She turned circles in the living room, looking at the burned furniture, unsalvageable things among many in the house.
She choked back a sob, her hand covering her mouth, as her eyes alighted on one thing that had survived.
The frame was burned, and crumbled a little in her hand, and the glass was shattered, but the picture inside was perfectly fine. It was of her eight year old son, the most recent picture taken at a zoo outing. His brown eyes shone with mirth, and his dirty blond tresses hung slightly in his eyes.
His hair that would never hang in his eyes again. His eyes that would never shine with mirth.
She let loose an unrestrained sob this time, clutching the photo to her chest. She then felt arms gather her up against a hard body. "Shh," her husband spoke, tears choking his voice. "It'll get better. It'll get better."
"When?" she choked out, burrowing into his body, crying.
"I don't know. I don't know."
"Luv?" her husband's voice, always soft and light when talking to her, brought her from her painful memories.
Then another memory assaulted her, beckoning forth more tears.
“Luv?” her husband’s voice barely broke her consciousness, and her only acknowledgement was a slight tilt of her head. “Luv, I-I have something for you. H-however, I won’t g-give it to you until you start to l-live ag-gain.”
She turned more in his direction, listening to his words, letting them wash over her.
They didn’t, however, really sink in.
“Fine,” she replied, still not moving.
“Please, Luv?”
She didn‘t acknowledge him again.
After that conversation, he had come to her everyday. Made her eat, bathe, and have a general upkeep. Slowly her grief dissipated, and started to live again.
"Is... Is this really... Really it?" she asked, tracing her fingers lightly over the box's design, as if it might shatter at any moment in her hands.
"It really is," he said, taking her hand in his and brushing it over the golden latch on the front.
She inhaled quickly. This was it, really it.
Her fingers trembled on the latch, pausing on it in a silent war of open versus don't open. Her husband finally decided for her, and flicked the latch from its place. The lid moved upward a centimetre, trying to keep contained everything inside.
Another gasp, more trembling fingers, the lid moving slowly back, a choked sob.
Inside were a few small trinkets, some pictures, and her son's favourite stuffed tiger when he was a baby.
"T-thank you," she choked out, throwing her arms around her husbands neck. "I love you so much."
"You’re welcome," he returned, wrapping his arms around her middle and holding her tight. "I love you too, so very much."
