Moving house is always a hassle. Everyone knows that.
Well, there I was, Catherine with her husband, Oliver, finally having bought a bigger flat, preparing to move right after New Year’s. They’d already started packing everything into big cardboard boxes, sorting through their things—some straight to the bin, others wrapped carefully.
Then came the turn of the wardrobe with the top shelf. Before leaving for work, Oliver had pulled down a box of Christmas baubles, along with everything else stored up there, placing it all in a neat pile. Now it was my job to sort through it.
Of course, the top shelf is where you keep things you don’t need day-to-day but can’t quite bring yourself to throw away—just in case they might be useful again someday.
Catherine had taken two weeks off work for exactly this purpose—to sort, sift, and decide what to take to the new place and what to leave behind. Not an easy task. What was she to do with her old schoolbooks, diaries, certificates? When her parents were alive, they’d kept them all, and now they’d passed to her like an inheritance.
She sat beside the pile, methodically going through these little treasures, some of which went straight into a black bin bag, others set aside. And then—there it was. A small little wooden box, covered in seashells and pebbles, tucked inside a soft linen pouch.
A gift from her beloved grandfather. He’d brought it back from a seaside holiday when she was ten, and it had become her secret treasure chest. Inside, she kept all sorts of small, precious things—memories tied to moments long gone.
*”I wonder if Emily has something like this?”* she thought about her daughter. But then she doubted it.
Kids these days were far too practical, far less romantic. By ten, they already knew exactly what they wanted to be, where they’d go to university. She and Oliver hadn’t thought like that at her age. She’d gone to the local comprehensive, trained as a technician, and ended up at the local biscuit factory. Oliver had been luckier—he’d always wanted to be an architect, and that’s exactly what he became. Studied, came back to his hometown, now a leading specialist. His work was in demand.
Emily was just the same—determined. Though at eleven, she still hadn’t settled on her future.
Catherine held the little box, suddenly afraid to open it. What childhood memories were waiting inside?
Finally, she lifted the lid. And inside—well, what could possibly be so valuable? A cheap pendant on a chain with a broken clasp, bought from a souvenir shop. Her grandmother’s brooch, shaped like a ladybird, missing a few stones. A large mother-of-pearl button—pretty, but she couldn’t remember what it was from. A lipstick in a gold case, given by a friend in Year 8, never used because her mother forbade it. And then—there it was. A dark blue velvet bow tie! Beautifully made.
Memories rushed back—that New Year’s Eve when boys from another school had visited theirs. She couldn’t even remember why. Maybe their hall was being renovated, or maybe the headmaster had arranged it. They’d put on a concert, then came the dancing—her first ever. Year 6, maybe? And that was when she’d fallen in love—well, as much as one could at that age.
There’d been a boy—he’d recited poetry on stage, words that had felt oddly grown-up to her. And now, here was the scrap of lined paper where she’d scribbled them down. He’d worn a dark blue suit and this very bow tie. How intense he’d seemed!
She’d stood in the corner in her white dress, hair loose for once instead of in plaits, dreaming he’d ask her to dance. Eleven, twelve years old? Hard to remember. But the flutter in her chest—that she recalled perfectly.
He hadn’t asked her. In fact, he’d slipped away early. She and her friend had followed to the cloakroom. He’d pulled on his coat, stuffed the bow tie into his pocket, yanked his cap low—and gone. The girls had watched from the side. Then, as they turned back, she’d spotted it on the floor. He must’ve dropped it.
She’d run outside, clutching it, hoping to catch him—but he was already in a car, door shut, gone. His parents, probably. They’d never spoken, never seen each other again. She hadn’t even known his name.
How many years had passed? Yet this little box had kept that tiny, insignificant moment alive. She tucked everything back inside and placed it on the windowsill, deciding not to hide it away again.
This was part of her childhood—let it stay, like a family heirloom. Maybe Emily would want to hear about it one day. Though she’d probably say, *”Mum, childhood’s over. These things don’t matter. You’ve got to live for now, not the past!”* Or something like that.
But she was wrong.
When Emily came home from school, she spotted the box immediately, rifled through it, and asked, *”This yours? Where’d you get something this cool?”*
She pulled out the ladybird brooch, then the bow tie. Over dinner, Catherine told her about the boy.
*”Did you ever try to find him?”* Emily asked. *”Go to his school?”*
*”Oh, please—social media didn’t exist then! I didn’t even know his name. Eat up, then homework. I’ve got loads to do.”*
That evening, Oliver came home from work, and after dinner, he helped pack. Emily piped up—
*”Dad, guess what? Mum fancied a boy at school. She’s still got a souvenir from him!”*
*”Emily!”* Catherine protested, but Oliver just smiled.
*”Not nice to spill secrets, is it? Didn’t you know?”*
*”Oh, and she’s got Nan’s ladybird brooch and all this—”*
Emily marched over, plucked out the bow tie. *”Some boy lost it, and she kept it because she liked him.”*
Oliver’s eyes narrowed as he stared at it. Then he reached out, took it from her, examining it closely.
*”Where did you get this?”* he finally asked.
*”Well, Emily just said—some lost it, I picked it up. Couldn’t return it, so I’ve kept it twenty years.”*
And then it hit him. The memory rushed back—that school evening he’d left early. The bow tie he’d lost. His father’s, bought abroad on a business trip.
*”I went back, asked if anyone had found it. Teachers just shrugged. Even the cleaner said no. And now—”*
*”So it was you, Oliver,”* Catherine murmured, and something in her chest chimed like tiny bells.
Fate must’ve been laughing.
That night, they reminisced—finishing school, university. She’d stayed local; he’d gone to another city. They’d met through mutual friends, kept in touch, but never more than that.
*”I always felt like I was waiting for someone,”* Catherine admitted. *”I’d forgotten about that boy, but my heart kept saying—don’t rush.”*
*”I wasn’t interested in girls back then,”* Oliver said. *”Lads joked about sweethearts, but I stayed on my own.”*
They’d met again—another New Year’s Eve, years later, at a club. From the first dance, they hadn’t parted.
*”I saw you, knew straight away—she’s the one,”* Oliver said.
*”I remember that dance. I wished—if he walks me home, it’s fate. And there you were, waiting outside.”*
Emily, listening, hugged them both. *”It’s not just your fate. If you hadn’t met, I wouldn’t be here. But I am. So.”*
Smart kid, no denying it.
They laughed, finally decorating the tree waiting on the balcony.
And the bow tie? Oliver took it. Said he’d wear it for New Year’s dinner.