All morning Maisie has been lost in her thoughts, which I don’t really care about since she’s got a lot to think about. We both do.

“Are we okay?” Maisie asks, her blue eyes fixed on mine as we walk down the street.

If she’s asking if we’re still friends then yeah of course. But if she’s asking if I’m not still hooked on the last few days then, I honestly don’t know. How can I kiss Maisie if I killed her mother? It seems so wrong, but if felt so right.

“I think so,” I reassure her. “At least we will be . . . If we’re not already.”

Maisie nods slowly bending her head down as we step quietly along the sidewalk.

“You know it’s all true, right?” Maisie hints, her blonde pony tail swinging over her shoulder as she lifts her head. “What I said that night.”

I’ve never known Maisie to lie, but we’ve only known each other for five months so maybe I don’t really know her as much as I think I do.

I nod once, looking down at her. “Yeah.” I answer. “I know . . . You know everything _I _said, I meant too, right?”

Maisie flashes a small smile that tells me everything I need to know. “Yeah, Davian . . . I know.”

We both look away, my face heating up as a cool breeze blows past. Our hands brush past each other, and instantly lock together.

I glance over my shoulder at Maisie, half smiling as she swipes at her bangs that keep falling near her eyes. Is it bad that I’m glad that her hair won’t obey her? It’s just she looks so beautiful when her hair is brushing past her eyes.

We walk around the neighborhood our hands never leaving each other. Even as we pass a few people walking Maisie doesn’t pull away or try to hide our hands. Maybe I’ve just watched too many movies but I’m pretty sure that’s what the girl always does.

“Does it still feel wrong?” Maisie asks, her fingers squeezing my hand gently.

Yes. It’s always going to feel wrong unless I tell you the truth. But . . . If I just push past that one little lie maybe this will feel right. We’re meant to be together, at least that’s how I’ve been feeling the last couple of days.

I shake my head, smiling softly to hide the part of me that wants to disagree. “No . . .” I lift our hands up, holding Maisie’s hand tightly in mine. _“This . . . _Is the most right thing I’ve ever felt in my entire life.”

Maisie grins, licking her perfect lips. “What changed your mind?” She challenges, knowing that the answer is her.

I swing her around to me, grabbing her face in my cold hands. I lean in, kissing Maisie as her hands rest on top of mine.

I shut my eyes, feeling like nothing could get better than this. And that’s probably true.

We break apart, breathing heavily as out noses graze past each other.

Maisie smiles, laughing breathlessly. “Good answer.”

I smile bringing Maisie’s face back to mine, melting into her as the whole world seems to spin around us.

She awoke abruptly, torn from a dream. Her grandmother, who had been dead for over forty years, stood beside her great aunt, on the front porch of an old farm house, one that she did not recognize. They both wore lovingly used aprons atop flowered cotton dresses and had dancing smiles on their faces, like they had a secret that they could barely contain themselves from sharing. “We found it especially for you,” they whispered, giggling mischievously as only young girls and elderly women can do. As the image faded, the light of the early morning hour gently knocked on her eyelids. She threw the white sheets off her warm body and rolled out of bed, feeling a comforting sense of love.

A few hours later, she drove her black SUV down a gravel road, obediently following the directions of Tommy - the affectionate nickname that she had given her GPS. “Your destination is on the left.” A few seconds later, “Turn left. You have reached your destination,” he stated in a British accent. She pulled the car to the side of the road and put it in park. Sitting there, she stared in disbelief at the house, a house that she had just inherited from a great aunt whose existence was unknown up until a few weeks ago, a house that she had never seen before, a house that was identical to the one in her dream from that morning. A chill ran through her. She squinted her eyes, gazing upon the front porch and could just barely make out the ephemeral figures of two women. “We found it just for you.” The sentence echoed in her mind as she pulled the vehicle up the driveway into the beginning of her new tomorrow.

In the dimly lit attic of an old Victorian house, Emily stumbled upon a dusty, weathered trunk. Curiosity consumed her as she brushed off the cobwebs and unlocked its ancient latch. Inside, nestled among moth-eaten clothes and faded photographs, was a small, intricately carved wooden box. It was a treasured possession passed down from her late grandmother, a woman who had always held a mysterious air about her.

As Emily held the box in her trembling hands, a shiver ran down her spine. There was something eerie and foreboding about it, as if it held secrets that were better left undisturbed. But she couldn’t ignore the duty that came with inheriting such a precious heirloom. She promised herself she would keep it safe, no matter what.

That night, as Emily lay in bed, a storm raged outside. The wind howled, rattling the windows, and rain pounded against the roof. The atmosphere grew heavy with an unsettling presence. Suddenly, a chilling whisper echoed through the room, causing Emily’s heart to race.

“Protect it, Emily,” the voice whispered, barely audible amidst the storm’s fury. “Keep it safe.”

Fear gripped Emily’s soul as she realized she was not alone. Shadows danced along the walls, and a cold gust of wind swept through the room, extinguishing the flickering candle on her nightstand. Panic welled up inside her, but she knew she had to be strong.

With trembling hands, Emily clutched the wooden box tightly, feeling its ancient power resonate through her. She knew she had to find a secure place to hide it, away from the prying eyes of whatever sinister force was lurking in the darkness.

Driven by instinct, Emily raced down the creaking stairs, the storm’s fury mirroring the turmoil within her. She reached the basement, the air thick with dampness and an eerie silence. The flickering lightbulbs barely illuminated the labyrinth of storage rooms and forgotten relics.

In the farthest corner, hidden behind stacks of forgotten belongings, Emily found an old, rusted safe. She carefully placed the wooden box inside, the weight of its secrets heavy on her conscience. She spun the combination lock, sealing away the enigmatic heirloom.

But just as Emily turned to leave, a bone-chilling laughter filled the basement. The shadows writhed and twisted, forming grotesque shapes that seemed to taunt her. Panic surged through her veins as she realized the darkness was closing in, threatening to consume her.

Summoning every ounce of courage, Emily bolted towards the stairs, the laughter echoing behind her. She raced through the house, the storm’s fury matching the pounding of her heart. Lightning illuminated the hallway, revealing fleeting glimpses of twisted figures, their malevolent gazes fixed upon her.

Finally, Emily reached the safety of her room, slamming the door shut behind her. She collapsed onto her bed, gasping for breath, her body drenched in sweat. The storm raged outside, but the presence that had haunted her retreated into the depths of the night.

Days turned into weeks, and the memory of that terrifying night began to fade. Emily carried on with her life, but she never forgot the wooden box and the sinister forces that lurked within. She knew she had fulfilled her duty, keeping the treasured possession safe, even if it was not an item she particularly liked.

For in the face of darkness and fear, Emily had discovered a strength she never knew she possessed. And though the wooden box remained hidden away, its secrets locked within, she would forever carry the weight of her grandmother’s legacy, a guardian of the unknown.

I feel your weight on my chest, Clouding my breath

Thank you for this “gift” you gave me

I feel the ice in my skin, Frosts your mocking grin

I shouldn’t thank you for anything

I feel the darkness inside Your hands cover my eyes

So I couldn’t see we were bleeding

The rain fell like acid A bitter girl’s ballad

The only thing you gave me Was a good fucking story.

I thumb at the marred surface with my eyes closed, feeling every nick and scratch. It’s the last piece I have of my grandpa.

The bed springs creak as I shift to unbutton my shirt. Then I lift the chain to the crown of my head and drop it there.

The metal settles around my neck and against my bare skin like a cool brand. Its tick climbs into my throat and leaves a lump; it climbs into my ribcage and beats there, a second heart. I breathe in time with its measured pace, matching my inhales and exhales to the sound of time passing, and wait for my throat to clear.

It doesn’t. The lump wedged inside my throat doesn’t dissolve. It just kind of sits there like a slowly melting ice cube until I think too hard and it comes right back.

I stare at the ceiling and just— remember. Remember Grandpa’s laugh, that elusive magic. Remember the way he called me; “Peter,” he’d say, “my boy, where’s your father?”

He’d sit with my father on the front porch and smoke until the sun hung big and faded and heavy in the sky. If I asked for a puff, Grandpa’d chuck me on the head and say he’d share one when I was a man.

I sit up on my elbows to run a finger over the engraving done on the side. Peter Lyle Thomas.

He didn’t just give me these memories or this pocket watch; he left me his name.

As I watch the moon glint off the timepiece, I wonder what I’ll do with his name. Where I’ll take it. How I’ll show the world my heritage.

But here and now, the hours of the night are measured in an endless tick, tick, tick.

And I have all the time in the world to figure out how I’m going to continue Grandpa’s legacy.

Stacy put her head against the cool glass of the window and closed her eyes. Sun was streaming into the car as they drove down I-25 into Denver.

“Thank you for coming with me today, sweetheart; it means a lot.” Stacy felt her mom’s hand gently squeeze her knee before moving back to the steering wheel . Sighing, Stacy opened her eyes and turned up the radio.

Twenty minutes later Stacy’s mom pulled their green Subaru into the parking lot of the Shady Acres assisted living facility. Her stomach filling with cement, Stacy slowly got out of the car and braced herself for the flickering of fluorescent lights, the sounds of TVs turned too loud because their viewers forgot to put in their hearing aids, for the smell of dust and bland cafeteria food.

“Tell me, my dear, how is school?” With a plastered smile on her face, Stacy has to concentrate on not rolling her eyes. What a boring question. How I’m I supposed to answer that? School sucks. The only fun part of my day is sucking Paul’s face during lunch.

“Oh, you know Grandma, school is school.” The conversation stalled momentarily as the two older women waited for elaboration. When none appeared to be forthcoming, however, the talk drifted back between Stay’s mother, Linda, and her grandmother. Stacy’s mind began to wonder as her eyes gazed around the small room. Her grandmother had been living in this facility for two years now and the long time residency showed in the personal touches scattered throughout. There were framed photographs of family members and old friends on the window sill and the night stand, a handmade quilt decorated the bed. As her eyes continued to lazily scan the room, they stopped on a box sitting on top of her grandmother’s dresser. It was a small box, no larger than a softball. It had a domed top with a flat bottom and was made from ornately carved wood.

“I see you have spotted your gift.” Stacy’s eyes snapped back to her grandmother.

“Gift? What for?” Stacy replied and then hastily added, trying to sound more polite, “Grandma you didn’t have to get me anything.”

“Oh my dear, I didn’t get you anything. That is very old. It was given to me by my grandmother and now I am passing it on to you. Go ahead, open it.”

Moving the short distance across the room to the dresser, Stacy excitedly took up the box in her hands. Her grandmother was never one to wear much jewelry but what else could this be, Stacy eagerly thought. There was a metal latch on the front of the box fastening it closed. Flicking the latch down, Stacy opened the lid and was surprised to see a small face looking back at her. Inside the box was a delicately painted miniature portrait of a strikingly beautiful young woman. The woman’s hair was a soft brown that cascaded down her shoulders in gentle ringlets. Her skin was flawless and pale with the slightest blush high on both cheeks. The pink lips were full and hinted at a smile. The bright green eyes twinkled with a mischievous intelligence and they appeared to be appeasing Stacy as much as she was appeasing them.

“Her name is Josephine and she has been in our family for a long time. It is now your responsibility to keep her safe.”

“Oh, um, cool Grandma, thanks.” Stacy had to admit she was a little disappointed that there hadn’t been a pretty necklace waiting for her in the box, but she guessed that the painting was cool, even though she had no idea what she was going to do with it. Maybe it was worth something and see could sell it to some museum or whatever.

Looking back down at the portrait, Stacy froze. The hair stood up on the back of her neck and goosebumps crawled up her arms. She was sure, absolutely sure that the woman in the portrait had just winked at her.

I was too young to know the significance of it then. I held the vintage handheld mirror to my face. A stranger stared back at me. What used to be a smooth pale face was now occupied by wrinkles and sagging skin.

My eyelids sat on my eyes as if they were laden with exhaustion, and my lips were a thin line which molded into a permanent scowl.

Who was this woman? She was a woman who used to be so full of life and excitement. I looked like my mother and my grandmother, and my grandmother before her.

I placed the gold-plated mirror on my desk and looked up and peered ahead into my gold circular vanity mirror. My skin was smooth and pale. There were no wrinkles. My eyes were lively, yet a bit sad. I smiled weakly.

I didn’t know who the woman in this mirror was either. I looked down at the heirloom that aged me once again. I didn’t like what I saw in either reflection.

This handheld mirror was the last thing my mother gave to me before she died in my arms. She whispered her last words so quietly, “See what I see”.

I couldn’t bear to look in that mirror any longer. My future looked too much like hers.

I appreciate it y’know.

The way the amber glows when light touches it, shining like a torch.

The pendent, where’d you get it from again?

Ah, yes. Our honeymoon.

Beautiful times give you beautiful gifts.

How come the biggest gift was the worst one?

You once told me you’d gift me a special remembrance of our love so how come I picked it up from your letter?

“Away you three inch fool!” Mercutio squawked. “Thou cream faced loon!”

Heath rested his pounding head in his palms. Two weeks of shrieking and bird shit, Heath rubbed the coiled muscles on the back of his neck. His sleep schedule was in the toilet, bird seed was all over his townhome, and now having to drive across town to visit an exotic animal doctor, taking home Uncle Cliff’s Green-Winged Macaw was a big mistake, thought Heath.

Heath loved Uncle Cliff. Cliff was dapper and well travelled. He worn an ascot to family barbecues. Crushed velvet throw pillows and gold candelabras, antique maps and first editions, in Cliff’s estate Mercutio was simply a colorful part of the scenery. Heath’s heart squeezed thinking of Uncle Cliff teaching him dirty limericks while the other kids played baseball.

A tuft of shocking red feathers landed on Heath’s cheek. He winced. Mercutio pulled out another feather and returned to walking along the veterinarian’s metal exam table. Mercutio’s wings were tucked tight and he took measured, inpatient steps. Heath imagined the bird looked a rainbow suited banker awaiting an important client.

The enormous parrot had a cadmium red head, chartusese emerald azure wings, and a beak that could and did crush walnuts. After plucking himself mercilessly Mercutio was also completely bald chested. Heath winced looking at the once beautiful animal’s pale pink pimply breast.

“Thou are unfit for any place but hell!” Mercutio screamed at Heath.

“Hey watch the language you, you cankerblossum,” Heath hissed.

Mercutio hissed back. Dr. Lauren Walsh opened the door, “Is it arguing with birds that we’re doing today?”

Heath flushed crimson. Mercutio squawked and flew in frantic circles before landing on Heath’s shoulder. With a snort, Dr. Walsh washed her hands in the tiny exam room sink.

“I was just uh reciting a little of the Bard for Mercutio. He likes it,” Heath said.

Dr. Williams quirked an eyebrow at him and began to examine her patient. Mercutio hid his head in Heath’s hair as the vet took his temperature and checked his sample under the microscope.

“Really, Doctor, I treat Merc like a king. My uncle taught me when I was a kid. I bird sat whenever Uncle travelled. Trim his claws, bathe him every week, I make him Brazil nut mango kiwi salad. Zounds, I don’t know what else to do.”

Dr. Walsh gently extended Mercutio’s wings beneath the exam light. He was glorious in red, green, and blue. Dr. Walsh and Heath smiled up at the swath of jungle unveiled in the strip mall vet clinic.

“Relax, I’ve been know to tell my Sulphur-Crested to go to blazes and she screeches ‘you first!’ Your birdie is very well cared for.”

Heath leaned into the vet’s lilting brogue. Poking his head up, Mercutio gave a salacious whistle. Heat bloomed up Heath’s neck. Dr. Walsh laughed and reviewed Mercutio’s medical records.

“I have his vitals and there is no sign of parasites or disease. The old reprobate looks healthy as a mule and twice as tetchy. I will give you a script for a topical ointment. But these birds are terribly sensitive. I suspect this fella is plucking himself over grieving your late uncle. He’s stressed and lucky to have someone he trusts. Read to him and take him out as much as you can. Birds get lonely too. Any questions?”

Heath shook his head. Dr. Williams began typing on her tablet. Thoughtfully Heath looked at Uncle Cliff’s bird. Mercutio showed Heath his long red tail feathers and twerked his bird bottom. Heath rolled his eyes.

“Take care Mr. Adams and call if you notice any coughing or sign of fever. Don’t hesitate to call any time and to you Mr. Mercutio LoudPants, ‘let us meet as little as we can,’” Dr. Walsh said to the bird with a little wink as she left the exam room.

“You, minion, are too saucy,” the bird said in a provocative drawl.

“Dude, chill. I’m teaching you sonnets.”

Bobbing his bright head, Mercutio did a shuffling happy dance on Heath’s shoulder.

Bella's grandma, Rosa did her own makeup frequently. Blushed cheeks and bold colored lips for special occasions. She always used her vintage gold compact mirror. It stayed in her purse and traveled with her. The makeup compact always intrigued Bella even though the powder was gone inside and the gold paint was wearing off. Her granddaughter's intrigue in the old, barely usable item confused Rosa.

Bella and her grandma lived 300 miles away from each other. They also shared a language barrier, but found ways to communicate as best they could. Upon saying their goodbyes from a family gathering, Rosa hugged Bella and slipped the compact into her hands. Still confused about the fascination with the compact, but understanding that it carried some importance to Bella.

Bella choked back tears and gave her grandma another hug. She felt honored to have this item that her grandmother had used daily, and hoped she could keep introduce it into her own daily routine to feel connected to her grandmother. Bella opened the compact and saw her reflection in the mirror. For once, she didn't wince at her own reflection in the mirror— she smiled. A toothy grin with tear-filled eyes.