A picture frame.
A shattered mirror reflecting shadows of sunlight.
The storage room sits along the dusty dirt road ridden with grass, weeds, and even tree saplings. It is hidden from sight, not easily seen, found or entered. The storage room is a mystery. An unknown mystery.
A music box.
A doll without an eye.
A picture of a girl holding a boy’s hand along with the eyeless doll.
The trail that leads to the storage room is long faded. Only the short span of dirt before the building remains clear of any plants. It is as if that area is poisoned, as if the room is screaming keep away. No one is allowed near. Not even the plants.
A muddy torn dress.
A muddy pair of trousers.
A golden lock of hair entwined with a lock of frizzy brown hair.
The storage room never makes a sound. It never creaks or squeaks. Or moans or groans. It never shakes at the sight of wind howling through the forest. It only sits tightly on the ground, stock still, protecting its contents inside grimly from the wild outside with its solid cinder block walls never uttering a word of complaint.
A rusty knife.
A bloody shirt.
A torn picture, a man and woman separated by a harsh jagged line.
The storage room only has one visitor. The only person who can open that locked door. The only person who can get inside. The only person who can hear the whispers of the stories the storage room holds. The person is a woman. A young woman of golden hair.
A wooden door.
A rusty lock.
Four windowless cinder block walls.
The woman deteriorates as the years go on, her golden hair turning gray. Her visits become more and more scarce and eventually stop, but the storage room remains, sitting there boldly, waiting for her to return and listen once again to the sad story it sings.