My grandmother’s old chest was her staple piece. The worn burgundy leather had begun to crack over the years, while the thin line of gold metal that framed the leather whispered its old age in a plea. Two solid and rusted locks held shut the massive lid in defiance to my incessant yanking and pulling as I tried to break open the chest with pure strength I had most definitely lacked as a child. As I sat alone, smelling the leather in front of the antique chest, I started to catch the faint cigarette smoke that always seemed to follow my grandmother around. Even after years of stopping the intolerable habit, the odor still persisted, filling my nose with a wince. If I closed my eyes, I could even hear her gruff and harsh voice filling the once lively room. “Get your grimy little hands off my chest, Grace,” she would tell me, always throwing me her infamous glare. But now, as I sit here, nestled into the small wooden chair, the seat cushions cracked and spilling stuffing out, that chest I had once been forbidden to touch was mine.

There was something eerie about the experience. So long, I had wondered what could possibly be so important, and now that I had it in arms reach, I didn’t know how to feel about it. Resting in the palm of my fist was a small rusted key. There was nothing special about it. Nothing was carved into it. It wasn’t glowing. It was just an old key.

Taking a deep breath, holding in the puff of air for a few seconds too many, I released it. Sitting on my knees in front of the chest, I brought the key to the opening. It slid in with ease. Squeezing my stomach tight, I turned it with a flick of my writs. The click of the lock was so loud within the silent room as the tight lid of the chest slowly loosened. It was disappointing, to say the least. Something inside me was expecting fireworks or even a monster to come flying out, but the only thing I received was a cloud of thick dust itching my inner nose. With a sneeze, I grabbed the bottom of the lid before lifting it up with a slight tug. The hinges of the chest groaned in retaliation, angry at the disturbance. With one last deep breath, I looked down into the chest I had waited my entire life to see, my shoulders tight in anticipation. Only that wow factor never came as I stared into an almost empty box.

Slightly off-centered laid a photograph. Covered in a layer of dust, I internally winced as I reached down to grab it, my fingers turning an unattractive shade of grey as I did. In between my forefinger and thumb was a black and white photograph that seemed worn and tired, as if it had been through too much. The colors had begun to merge together, the picture faded and exhausted. The fragile paper in my fingers felt as if one wrong move would turn the photograph to ash, like soot from a fire, slowly falling through the air onto its final resting spot. Taking the time to analyze the image, my eyes fell upon a beautiful woman. Her hair rested beautifully on her shoulders, her curls sitting on her forehead in a display of perfection. A smile took over most of her face, straight teeth resting under plush lips that seemed a vibrant red, even in the grey photo. But it was her eyes that captivated me. The wide orbs stuck like a deer in headlights rested in the middle of her face. They were symmetrical by any means, but something about the peculiar look of them enchanted anyone who saw. She was beautiful. And that’s when I noticed it was her: my grandmother. This rare beauty was the same person as my harsh and rude grandmother, who used to smack my pointed elbows when they rested on top of her table. That bright smile was the same as the grim frown she gave everyone who passed. I snickered to myself in disbelief. That old bat didn’t want anyone to know she could smile.