The autumn sun is sending Low golden rays through the scarcely leafy walnut tree that has been standing in front of my grandparents’ old house for as long as i can remember, and based on the old black and white photographs of my granddad as a young man, from before his time. The warm glow made the doorknob pleasantly warm to the touch. For a handle that has not been turned in years, the metal is still surprisingly shiny and clean. The same could not be said for the keyhole. The past 15 minutes has seen me sweatingly trying to jam in a large, chunky key. I almost resign and start considering breaking a dirty window when the keyhole finally surrenders and the old key turned. At a gentle push, the old wooden door creaks open and the musky smell of an unaired house overwhelms my senses.

A quick look around confirms everything is still in the place I remember since the last time I’ve been here, as a teenager. A small kitchen with a dining table to the right, a little living room with a fireplace, in front of which I used to leave my teddy bear so he wouldn’t get cold in the winter.

The survey of the downstairs reveals no major damage to the structure of the little house, and if any animals have since taken residence in it, they have been taking care of their new home well. I quickly look at my watch. I still have about half hour before my mum and uncle Paul arrive with the van, giving me time to go upstairs. The stairs are creaky and shaky, however, I remember them creaking and shaking every night I had to quietly go to the loo, even as a small eight year-old. The house was from a time toilets were still built on the outside, so I always had to leave the house and walk to the back of it to reach the little hole. I remember the time when one of this night loo trips resulted in me finding a batch of newly born puppies cuddled up into their mother’s fur in the warm corner of wheat that was being used to cover up the number twos.

By the time i safely reach the upper landing, I left behind the warmly sunlit downstairs. Fewer windows light up the upper floor, and they are closed shut with wooden panels. I use the torch on my phone to look around and try to retrace the rooms on this floor. There are only three rooms up here, but as a child, I only ever spent time in one. Quickly opening the first door on my right shows a room much tinier than I remember. If it weren’t for the little writing desk in the corner and the window looking at a field behind the house, I would not have remembered this being the room I had spent so many summer nights in. I know what I am looking for is not here, so I close the door again. I consider my other two choices - my grandparents’ room and what used to be uncle Paul’s room but was now used as a store room. I quickly walk past the staircase and reach the store room. Opening the door sends a pile of dust directly into my mouth. The room is pitch black, not just because of the shut windows but because of boxes, crates, disintegrating bags and other objects. I panic. It would take me days if not weeks to rummage through all of it to find it. Mum and Paul are on the way and I knew of their plan to load all of the boxes and bags into the van and take them directly to the tip without even opening them.

I think back to what my grandma whispered to me during my last visit, barely audible through the beeping of her breathing machine. “They’re important. They are wrapped and should still be whole. They’re in the red chest.” I look around the large store room again. Most of the paint from the wooden boxes has since peeled off, and in the dim light of my phone torch, even the colours still there look oddly distorted. I think again. Something that important would not be kept here, with boxes of old clothes, curtains, blacksmith tools and pots. I reverse my steps, go past the staircase again, past my old bedroom, and stand in front of my grandparents’ bedroom. Whilst I had never stepped in before, I remember standing in front of them many times, listening to sounds, from drunken arguments to whispers to prayers. I carefully try to open the door, but it hatches. My phone lights up with the text message from my mum letting me know that they are just pulling into the village. I turn sideways and crash into the door with my shoulder. The door breaks, but as the house is going to get torn down soon, I do not care. The window pane here is open, so the room is lit brightly. The room is almost empty. An old wardrobe on my left is smaller than me now. A tiny bed in the centre of the room still has sheets on them. It is remarkable how two adults who despised each other were able to sleep in such vicinity. A table with a basin on it is just under the window. And there, underneath the basin in the chest, still bearing the remnants of cherry-coloured paint.

I quickly make my way towards it. Bending down, I pull it from under the table. The size of a one-person ottoman, it is heavier than it looks. Hadn’t i known what I was looking for, I would have assumed it was just a boxy seat; now, knowing it holds something precious to my grandma, I carefully examine it and try to find the opening. All sides seem flat, like a perfectly square box. I close my eyes and instead try to focus on the feeling in my fingertips. Feeling the smooth sides of the box, my fingers finally latch on a couple of small holes, which, after pushing in, pop the top of the box. My excitement does not vane after I remove the top. To my surprise, I see folded white clothing, now eaten by moths, and underneath, a weaved basket. I know what this large basket is. It had been used by grandma during the war. She and other women from nearby villages would travel miles between towns on foot, through fields and forests, carrying produce and eggs on their had in woven baskets, and exchange them for fabric, soap, and coffee on the other end. Whilst some were caught by the militia, many successfully kept feeding families from these villages throughout the war. I get shivers down my spine thinking of stories my grandma told me. I realise how precious these objects are, but I still cannot see what grandma asked me for. Sliding my hand deeper into the contents of the box, I finally grab something that feels like a tin box. I carefully pull it out. It’s beautifully decorated, with black, red and silver flowers drawn on it. Just slightly larger than my palm, i open it and gasp. They’re wrapped in a plastic bag, but they are clearly letters. Dozens and dozens of letters. I carefully unwrap them and pull one out. The beautiful handwriting spells out my grandma’s maiden name. I can barely breathe whilst I open the envelope and pull out the yellowing piece of paper. My heart swells whilst my eyes read through beautiful lines that have been written to my grandmother over 70 years ago. The signature, “Yours forever, Katherina”, makes my eyes tear up. I almost miss the sound of the van pulling in front of the house. Carefully I put the letter back with the rest, and pack them all in my bag. Just before leaving the room, I take the weaved basket. Her history will not be forgotten.