18. Pandora

She fingered the ornate patterns, hand carved into the box.
It was small and stilted, hovering half an inch from the ground on lionclaw-like legs. Smiling, dimples pocked her face, as though she chewed on the inside of her cheeks.
It was late autumn and the sun shimmered through the skeletal branches on the technicolour patchwork of leafs.  She dusted the top of the container and put her gloved hands neatly on the back of the box, her thumbs poised to raise the lid.
The box was locked.

The End

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