Elienne

### He laid the key gently in the space he had made specially for it, and slid on the lid, locking it in place with a deft hand, feeling the smooth wood, thinking of the many days, the numerous hours spent working long into the night, to make this: a puzzle box, made of cedar. A knowing hand could move the levers into place, releasing the catch, and allowing the little box to slide open.### He knew it was time to start when he heard the sound of the motor, seen the tall, pale man get out of the car and stride into the house next door, followed by movers, carrying long cardboard boxes, containing, as he well knew, guns, knives, and poison. He knew he should have started sooner. He knew it would happen. He just hoped it wouldn’t. It was not that he was afraid of death, but that he liked living. So he had gone out and bought metal shutters, installed a peephole, and put motion sensors at every door and window. He knew it wouldn't stop them, just delay them. He just hoped he had long enough.### He was startled out of his memories by a rustling sound outside his window. Probably just the wind. Nonetheless he felt a panic creeping down upon him like a dark blanket. He grabbed a pencil and began scribbling the code upon the box: Rs 5/... Too late he heard the beep of the motion sensor, felt the wind upon his back, he turned, a cry was upon his lips, but a shot rang out, and his shout died with him. As he fell, his arm caught the box, and sent it skittering under a bookshelf. The murderer, a tall, thin man covered in black clothing did not seem to notice. He was busy examining the dead man, face permanently set in an expression of surprise, horror, and disgust. “Well, well,” murmured the assassin, “It is you, old man. Now where have you hidden that key?” He began to methodically search the room, his cool blue eyes glinting cruelly as they flicked about. As the search progressed, and he did not find what he was looking for, he grew incensed, slashing books, overturning chairs, and breaking the dirty plates that lay in piles about the room.### It still felt like a dream, as it had a week ago when she got the call and took the next plane, arriving that evening to find a team of police and detectives peering through magnifying glasses and taking samples and... She shook her head as if to clear it of the fog of sadness and confusion that kept gathering there. She knew she had to get something to eat. She had not eaten for the last day and a half, she had been so busy being interrogated, signing paperwork, and sorting through her uncle’s stuff. Most of it was garbage-shattered plates, slashed books, and broken furniture. It all had to be thrown away. What was left was some good furniture and some miscellaneous knickknacks. The furniture had been sold to the local antique store. Now all that remained was to sort through the stuff that to almost anyone else was garbage, but to her might have some sentimental value.### She got in her car, drove to the nearest restaurant, gulped down a tuna sandwich and raced back to the house, eager to finish the job. As she pulled up, she saw a long black car drive away. She walked up to the door and was about to enter when the policeman, posted to guard the house, barred her way. Burly guy with rippled muscles and a shaven head. “Got any friends around here?” he growled “N-n-no.” she stammered. “Tall, thin guy came up here, all dressed in black. Says he’s your friend. Asks to come in. I said not till you get back. Looked ready to punch my lights out, till he saw I had a gun; then he ran right off. You know him?” “No.” she said, shuddering. Some part of the description stirred a fear in her. She shook it off. “No.” she repeated, more firmly this time. He growled something incomprehensible at her and stepped aside.### She walked inside. There they were, piled on a table, the last things; a plaque bearing the words ‘Home Sweet Home’, a wiry doll with a shrunken eye, a small sculpture, a Marlboro canteen, a bonsai, and a rounded block of wood with two screws in it. Two levers folded out of it. It looked like a pocket knife. Something about it drew her. Some aura of power. She almost put it in with the stuff she was taking with her. Then she thought of how little space she had for useless things, and she put it in the thrift store box. The doll, the sculpture, the sign, and the canteen soon joined it. She kept the bonsai. She took the next plane home.### One year later...### I pace about the room, my mood as black as my clothing, nearly sobbing with frustration. “I must control myself!” I think. “So what if I was close enough to touch what I have been working for all my life. So what if I arrived five minutes after the people bought it from the thrift store. So what? There is still a chance I’ll find it!” This chance didn’t do much to improve my mood. What I need, I decide, is to listen to some radio. Take my mind off my troubles by listening to someone else’s. I open the website of my favorite radio show. There it is, in front of me. The object of so many hopes and dreams. The Box. Never mind how it got there. I have to get it. I have to write the best story. I just have to. But how? I have an idea.........