The photographs were scattered at the bottom of an old leather and wood chest, which was not much larger than a regular shipping box, two feet by two approximately. Lilly huddled in the corner of the unfinished garage, staring down at multi-colored images discovered within the secreted container. The top few images were a myriad of moments: children playing, a birthday cake and smiling old man about to wish, a woman posing with a white dress and cigarette, and other mundane scenes. Something else lurked behind these casual accounts of ordinary life, but what it was her fifteen year-old self could not speak to it, only feel it.
Beyond the garage the sounds of a regularly scheduled argument flared up. It was his fault. She never listened. Money didn’t grow on trees. Lilly focused on the images before her to form a silent barrier between her and what had become a normal Sunday morning. If she stayed were she was, still and quiet, she would be forgotten.
Absently she began to shift through the images, careful to not look but only feel them. Her fingers dove into memories left behind by those left before her, flipping and caressing the shape and texture. When she felt a particularly glossy square, she smiled and drew it up to inspect.
The noise quieted behind her. The light dimmed. Lilly had no time to react as she watched the box’s lid slowly close down on the Polaroid of her smiling face falling into the pile of other captured moments, below.
Frantic voices would not be heard from her quiet in the box. She would never see the missing posters or hear the tears of family. It was quiet. It was what she wished for.