The hallway was a maze of cardboard, each box sighing under its own weight. Ian, his cheeks flushed from the strain, shoved another crate onto the high shelf, the dust settling on his thinning crown like a thin veil of frost.
Why keep all this rubbish? he muttered, wobbling down the rickety stepladder.
It isnt rubbish, Mabel replied softly but with an iron resolve, seated on the floor while she rifled through an old leather suitcase stuffed with papers. Its memory.
Memory, Ian snorted. Its breaking my back already. Youll toss it all in a year. Theres no room.
Mabel said nothing, her fingers tracing the worn cover of a cracked photo album. She opened it.
Look, she said, as if his grumbling were a distant echo. Firstgrade. Remember?
Ian shuffled closer, his eyes catching a yellowed photograph of a little girl in white ribbons squinting against the sun.
I remember, he grumbled, softer now. You were crying about a torn apron.
And this she pointed to a faded badge. the scout camp.
The Brownsea camp, Ian said, peeking over her shoulder. You brought back that shell. Its still somewhere in this room.
He went back to the boxes, his enthusiasm drained. Mabel turned page after page: childhood, university, their weddingIan in a ridiculously wide suit, her in a lace dress borrowed from her mother. Young, smooth, smiling into the camera, unaware of the cramped flat twenty years later, his endless mutterings, her quiet resentment that romance had been left on paper.
Careful! Mabel shouted suddenly.
Ian brushed a small cardboard box, and its contents spilled across the linoleum. While he cursed and gathered the wreckage, Mabel lifted a tiny velvetlined casket from the floor. She lifted its lid.
Inside, on a cushion of cotton, lay the same shell from Brownsea, a few dulled merit badges, a dried mimosa twig, and a folded school notebook page.
Whats this? Ian asked once the floor was tidy.
Mabel unfolded the page. A child’s diligent hand had written:
My list of wishes.
1. Become a doctor.
2. Play the guitar.
3. Visit Paris.
4. Marry for true love.
She handed the paper to him without a word. He scanned it, his expression softening before a snort escaped his lips.
Well, you never became a doctor. You dont play the guitar. Paris can wait But love He trailed off, rubbing his sore back. You didnt become a doctor, but now my spine aches like an old mans, thanks to your archives.
Mabel took the slip from his hands, stared at point four, then at his tired, dustcovered face, at his hands that had just hauled heavy boxes to make room in her wardrobe.
Marrying for true love doesnt mean living in perpetual romance, Ian, she said. It means when your back hurts, I give you a massage, and you wash the dishes in return.
She folded the paper neatly, slipped it back into the casket, and closed the lid.
Alright, she sighed. Perhaps youre right about some of it. A part of this can be sorted out.
She set the casket aside, among the few things shed never throw away. Then she moved to Ian, wrapped her arms around him, and pressed her cheek to his bristly beard.
Thank you, she whispered. For everything.
Ian froze for a heartbeat, then awkwardly ran his hand through her hair.
Dont be silly Whats this about? he muttered. Will you still remember my back?
I remember, Mabel smiled, leaning into his shoulder.
She knew Paris and the guitar would stay where they belongedon a yellowed scrap of paper, a dream of a past that never quite fit. Yet in that dusty, cramped hallway, the air smelled not of wishes but of lived life, and that too was a kind of happiness. A happiness you cant photograph or paste into an album. It simply existed, and that was enough.
