My aunt handed me a rough, mustard-yellow dress made of coarse stiff polyester and told me I was wearing it to the Senior Heritage Gala.
Back at Aunt Coi’s house, the air in the backyard shed was thick with the scent of old wood, damp earth, and something vaguely metallic. Dust motes danced in the slivers of sunlight that pierced the grimy windows.
Kevin coughed, pushing aside a stack of rusted garden tools. “Aunt Coi, are these the ‘vintage’ lights you were talking about?” he called out, his voice slightly muffled.
Aunt Coi was inside, making one of her elaborate fruit salads, probably to post on social media. Her response was distant. “Just keep looking, darling! They’re in one of those boxes marked ‘Seasonal’!”
He ignored the “darling,” his gaze sweeping the cluttered space. Old furniture parts, cracked ceramic pots, deflated pool toys – a graveyard of forgotten things.
He spotted a stack of wooden crates in the far corner, covered by a heavy, moth-eaten blanket. One of them, smaller than the rest, had a tarnished brass lock. It didn’t look like a “seasonal” box.
He pulled the blanket aside. The chest was made of dark, aged wood, heavy and solid. It had the kind of wear that spoke of many journeys, many moves.
Kevin’s fingers traced the intricate carvings on the lid. This was definitely not where old fairy lights would be kept.
He tried the latch. It was indeed locked. Aunt Coi was meticulous about her security, even on trivial things.
He remembered a small, rusty crowbar he’d seen near the door. He picked it up, the cold metal heavy in his hand. He wasn’t sure what he expected to find, but his gut told him this chest was important.
With a soft *click* that was surprisingly easy, the lock gave way. It must have been very old, or perhaps not secured properly after years of neglect.
He lifted the heavy lid. Inside, tucked under a layer of yellowed newspaper and old linens, was a bundle of letters, tied with a faded red ribbon. The handwriting on the top envelope was instantly recognizable, even after six years.
It was their mother’s. Lien’s.
His hands trembled as he picked up the bundle. The letters were addressed to their grandmother, written in careful, elegant Vietnamese. He knew his mother had kept up a regular correspondence until her very last days.
The dates on the envelopes ranged from six to eight years ago, chronicling her final battle with illness. A wave of grief, cold and sharp, washed over him, but it was quickly followed by a surge of desperate curiosity.
He tucked the letters inside his jacket, covered the chest again, and casually moved a box of actual holiday lights to a more visible spot.
“Found them!” he yelled, a triumphant grin on his face.
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