THE BOX OF LOST PROMISES
Recently, Clara had started to suspect that someone else was living in their home with her and her husband. And no, not a ghost. Ghosts, she reasoned, had gravitas: if they showed up, it surely wasnt to mess about with socks.
This was pure, unadulterated domestic nuisance. A sort of mischievous house-elf.
First to vanish were her sports socks. One at a time, naturally. If it had been the washing machine, shed have sighed and moved on after all, every woman worth her salt knows thats just how it goes. But these particular socks, white with a smart red stripe, were the ones she always wore to yoga and were forever popping up in her drawer, taunting her: Whens the last time you used us?
And then, suddenly, gone. First one, then the other the very next day.
They reappeared a week later. Right back in their usual spot. Rolled tightly, like little snails. On top was a scrappy bit of grey paper, blocky letters typed with the sort of wobble that suggests the effort of a typewriter after a rough night out:
You neglected us for 127 days. We kept count.
Is this your idea of a joke? she rounded on her husband, Henry, who was peaceably scrolling through the morning headlines. If this is some subtle hint that I need to get back to the gym, youve outdone yourself.
She got only a blank stare and a genuine denial.
Fine, whatever… Clara shrugged, only half convinced Henry was a notorious prankster.
Next up: her favourite hair clip, the one that always perched atop the hall mirror, followed by her special-occasion lipstick that lived in her handbag.
She found them both in a kitchen cupboard, nestled between bags of rice and spaghetti, each with its own note.
On the hair clip:
Do make your mind up long locks or a bob? Im tired of being abandoned only to play the prodigal hair accessory when nostalgia strikes.
On the lipstick:
And when, exactly, was this supposed special occasion? Im at risk of drying up entirely over here.
This isnt funny anymore, Clara hissed, shaking a half-slumbering Henry from his sofa nap.
Youve lost it! Henry retorted, thoroughly affronted. Do you really think Id put that much effort into a joke?
A solid point Henry wasnt daft, and Clara felt the first inklings of anxiety.
She tried to remember where she left things, sometimes returning to check multiple times. She even made an appointment with their GP, who, after a series of tests, declared that her memory was better than his.
Yet the disappearances continued: her favourite pens. That striped blouse she wore at least twice a week. The hand cream she always kept by the side of the bed.
But the pièce de résistance: the set of spare keys to their cottage in the Cotswolds. That particular debacle had left Henry stomping around for a week, nostrils flaring with indignation.
Clara became a bundle of nerves: sleeping poorly, jumping at every creak, and moving her phone, keys, and purse so often it became a kind of anxious dance.
Then, one Saturday, things took a positively surreal turn.
She decided to finally sort out the jumble in the wardrobe a job long overdue. And there, in an old shoebox, she found everything that had vanished. Arranged as neatly as in a display window at an Oxfam shop.
The blouse, entwined with her pleated mini skirt. Note attached:
Have you forgotten how to dance?
Her pens, organised by colour:
Were gnawed to bits when youre anxious. Can we have some peace?
The keys, joined by a novelty key ring, holding hands, so to speak:
We just got bored and went galavanting no one ever visits the cottage. But unlike some, we found our way home.
Clara was lost for words.
There was something wry, yet wise and faintly melancholy, in those scraps of paper as if shed written them to herself in some alternate universe where there was time for even a chat with her inanimate possessions.
She was about to close the box when she spotted a lone grey square at the bottom. No item attached. Just a note.
The words shimmered and blurred, as if the paper itself had wept:
You promised the girl in the mirror youd be an artist.
Im that girl.
Its so lonely here, in this box with lost promises and dashed hopes.
Clara sat on the floor for a long time, leaning against a mountain of shoes and jumpers, remembering.
There she was in the nursery, tongue sticking out in concentration, drawing a house, the sun, and Mummy, Daddy, and her little sister with felt tips.
There was her first art class in school that delicious thrill of watercolour blooming on damp paper.
The smell of oils in the college studio. Museum hush. Each brushstroke like a bar of music. The lecturers bright explanations.
At first, she thought this would be her life.
Then, a hobby. A comfort.
Then nothing.
Not because she didnt have time, but because she kept telling herself there was always something more pressing. Eventually, the warm anticipation faded quietly just like the missing socks, pens, and keys.
She traced her finger over the last note.
It felt oddly warm and seemed to quiver beneath her touch. Or perhaps it was just her hands, trembling a little.
Was another round at the shopping centre, or one more whodunnit, really more important than her dream?
That night, Clara tossed and turned. Sleep eluded her. At 2am, she slipped out from under the duvet with a sigh.
Where are you off to? Henry mumbled groggily.
Go back to sleep she whispered.
Somewhere among the boxes in the wardrobe, she remembered seeing her old paints, thought Clara, catching her reflection in the hall mirror. The same girl frightened, but with a flicker of hope.
