Inktober 2025 - 14 - Trunk

She must have opened that trunk a million times as a child. Whenever she visited her grandparents, regardless of the season, she would always ask to be allowed to play in the attic, and then she would lose herself in the giant piece of luggage. They had never seemed to mind. She did not remember when it had first caught her fancy, but she knew it was the only item in the room that ever had. Maybe that was why it was the only thing that had always remained in there, like a reassuring constant? Either way, she used to spend hours on end rummaging through the treasures contained within the large chest: pieces of clothing, old hand-written letters, broken mechanisms, bits of jewellery, and even a few leather-bound volumes. She used to love the smell that emanated from it all. She wondered if it was all still there. Maybe her grandparents had added things to the lot, over time?

Kneeling next to the antique coffer today, she felt sad that she had stopped playing with it so long ago. Unlike other objects from her childhood, it somehow still looked as big to her now as it had then. Carefully, she unbuckled both straps, one after the other, and lifted the lid. The box creaked as it opened, just like it always had, which got a smile out of her. The scent was also just as she remembered it.

As she brushed her fingertips against paper and fabric, she however realised she was not capable of telling what had changed, or whether anything had in the first place. It felt similar, but she could not tell for certain. She was suddenly hit with a pang of guilt for never asking anyone about any of this. Why had she never questioned either of her grandparents about the mysterious language in which the books and letters were written? How come she had never enquired about the importance of those specific ribbons and chains? People do not put things in trunks without planning on using them for something, or them holding a special meaning for them. Despite everyone knowing where she spent most of her time while in this house, no one had ever volunteered the information, either. And now, there was not anybody left who could possibly be in a position to answer any of her questions.

Sighing, she closed the box. Should she keep it? There was nothing else of sentimental value in this house. She would know; she had just spent the last few days doing an inventory. But why keep something you do not know the true significance of? Childhood nostalgia did not seem like a satisfactory reason to hang on to a litteral trunkful of seemingly random knick-knacks. Maybe she could ask an antiquarian? She had no illusion about the monetary value of the lot, and even if she was mistaken she would probably feel wrong selling it, but if they could shed some light onto her family history, maybe it was worth a try.