Chapter 5: The Blue Box
My mother's old art studio stood behind a house we had sold two years earlier.
Dad had kept the small building because he couldn't bring himself to throw away her paintings. It sat at the far end of a narrow garden, half-hidden behind overgrown rose bushes and a wooden fence.
The windows were dusty.
The door was locked.
And the brass handle had turned green with age.
I had not been there since I was six.
When Dad parked beside the garden gate, I stared at the building.
"Why didn't you ever tell me you kept this place?""
He switched off the engine.
"Because every time I came here, I remembered how much I had lost.""
I looked at him.
"You lost Mom. I lost her, too.""
He nodded slowly.
"I know.""
We walked through the garden.
Wet leaves stuck to my shoes, and the air smelled of damp earth. Dad brushed a branch aside, revealing the old door.
He took the silver key from his pocket.
For a moment, he held it without moving.
Then he inserted it into the lock.
The key turned with a soft click.
The door opened.
Dust rose in the pale morning light.
Inside, everything looked smaller than I remembered. A wooden easel stood beside the window. Shelves held jars of dried paintbrushes, and a faded blue apron hung from a nail.
My mother's unfinished painting rested on the easel.
It showed our old house surrounded by white roses.
I walked toward it.
"She was painting this when she died.""
Dad stood behind me.
"Yes.""
"Why didn't you finish it?""
He shook his head.
"I wouldn't have known how.""
I touched the edge of the canvas.
There was a small handwritten note on the back.
For Emily, when she's old enough to understand.
My throat tightened.
"Did you know this was here?""
Dad leaned closer.
May you like
"No.""
I turned the
