Ryan stares down at the first box.
Looming over it, his gaze fixated on its dark lid, he tries to imagine what could possibly be inside. And what will it mean? The four black sides of the box are holding something inside, like this room and its four walls keeping him captive. Is it something he’ll want to see? Does it want to be seen? And is it meant to help him? Or is it designed to be a burden?
He reaches down, the tips of his fingers tingling with a heady mixture of anticipation and dread. Gripping the edge of the lid, he pauses and gently closes his eyes, slowly drawing in a steady measure of air. He has always done this – a forced reset to some sort of calm. And it usually works, even in the worst situations. But has there ever been anything as bad as this?
His eyes flicker open. His heart is still racing.
Just do it, Ryan.
He lifts the lid. It slides off the box smoothly, with ease, as if it was designed to be opened and not shut. As if what was hidden was always meant to be set free. But … there’s nothing inside … Is there?
He crouches down, staring at the bottom of the box.
Frowning, he traces a finger around the side of the base. His eyebrows rise: the white rectangle – which at first glance he had assumed was part of the box itself – is a sheet of paper. And now that he looks closer, he can see the outline of the image on the other side, but he can’t make out what it is.
He picks up the paper slowly and flips it over. As he takes in the photograph, his hands begin to shake violently, the picture blurring before his eyes.
It’s her. The only woman he will ever love.
But this isn’t just any photo of her. It’s the one he has hidden away in his drawer at home, marked with holes.
His chest tightens, his breath shallow and quick.
How do they have this photo?
And why is it here?