Who chooses to forget

A parcel sat on the doorstep. Alice almost stepped on it, but caught herself in time, snatching back her foot and leaning heavily into the doorframe. The parcel was quite small, about the size of a child’s shoebox, and was wrapped in brown paper.  She glanced briefly up and down the street and then lifted it up, turning it over to find the address. Nothing on it except her name in scribbly biro: A. Randall. Alice peered at the writing, but didn’t recognise it.

"Strange," she thought, and tried to ignore the small prickle of fear that stabbed suddenly in her chest. "It’s nothing, "she told herself. "Probably some silly marketing gimmick – wanting me to buy new insurance or something."

Alice carried the nothing back inside the house, even though she was now definitely late. She laid it - still nothing - on the table. Her hand shook a little as she tore the paper, and she wanted to smile at how silly she was being but couldn’t quite.

Inside the paper was a plain white box.

Alice had to sit down. She couldn’t bring herself to open it yet, although she knew she would have to. She sat and stared at the box while the tap dripped and the kitchen clock ticked and her heart beat out of time with them both.

The End

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