The house smelled of morning coffee and old wood. I ran up the stairs to our bedroom, my heart rate increasing with each step.
I opened the heavy oak wardrobe, pushing aside Damon’s gray suits and my row of beige cardigans.
At the very end, behind a pile of winter blankets we hadn’t used in years, was a dark, narrow space where the floorboards met the wall.
I pushed the gray box into the corner and covered it with a woolen scarf.
If Damon found her, he’d ask why I had to draw attention to myself. His voice was calm and reasonable, while he himself gave the impression that the dress was a stupid mistake.
I slowly closed the closet door, making sure the latch clicked shut.
The sound of the television downstairs hummed through the floor, the faint murmur of the afternoon news. I looked at these little gems, remembering how my mother only wore them on Sundays or when my father took her to the fair.
