Ella Rights has the perfect life with her foster mother Azalea Bennett but she can't help but notice how miserable her foster mother looks and after all she has done for her, she wants to fix that.
It wasn't until she was rummaging around in the...
I heaved myself onto the floor of the attic by my forearms. I twisted myself around dragging my legs up to join my torso. Once I had pulled myself through the small hole that led to our attic I stood up and began wondering.
My mother had left for work over an hour ago and wasn't due back for hours. I thought now, was the perfect time to go exploring.
My eyes scan over the dust coated objects looking for anything that might take my interest. My gaze landed on something in the corner furthest from the entrance. I slowly walked over to it. I clambered over old furniture in order to get to it.
It was placed on the floor behind an old desk chair. Almost completely hidden from sight. There it was. A large rustic oak chest sitting on the floor. A light sprinkling of dust coated it's lid but there was far less dust on or around, compared to everything else in the attic. This peeked my curiosity further.
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A small cast iron latch sat undisturbed on the lid. I unhooked the latch pulling the lid open. Inside sat a smaller box. A memory box. My brows furrowed, my head titled to the side in confusion and curiosity. I picked the smaller box up. The box was simple enough. Made of a light coloured wood it had 'Every love story is beautiful but ours is my favourite.' written on the top. A tiny lock sat on the front of the lid but with no key resting in its place.
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I rested the box carefully on my lap. I looked back into the chest. There it was, laying on the bottom of the chest. I picked up the small golden ornate key sliding it into the lock. I turned the key, a click resounding from within. I lifted the lid after slight preparation.
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Inside the box lay dozen upon dozen of Polaroids. All were slight different. But they all had one similarity. A girl. The same girl was in every picture. Most were of just the girl on her own but a few contained a very familiar face.
Azalea. My foster mother. But at least six years younger.
They looked so happy. Happier than I had ever seen Azalea. This girl who ever she was. Was the key to my foster mother's happiness. And I was going to find her.
