My grandmother’s room, left undisturbed for years, was startlingly clean when I first pulled open the door by its heavy brass handle. A crossed square of sunlight upon the floor gave the place a religious glow, but the quiet was heavy and any noise might fall and break it.

At that age, I was impressed by shiny things, thus the dark wooden jewelry box upon the vanity became an immediate point of interest. The cushioned seat, magenta with tassels that tickled as I climbed up, complained slightly at my rocking weight, but I was small and it cradled me comfortably. Polished wood tabletop gleamed almost as reflective as the smoky mirror. The reflected room it framed was a timeless gold, and the girl who sat in the other chair looked like someone else.

The box opened on noiseless hinges, revealing a tangle of chains and gems. This disarray made little sense in the pristine atmosphere, not only disturbed but also left in that state. Yet the silver earrings hung shining and perfect, waiting for the next wearer.