SATe [✔]

[20] scintilla

My fingers traced the edge of the nearest box, feeling the rough texture of aged cardboard beneath my touch. It had likely been kept in storage for over ten years, untouched and ignored. The faint scent of old paper mingled with the sweetness of the apartment itself, each one, in turn, inviting me to embrace the bittersweetness of the memories inside each box.

With a deep breath, I closed my eyes briefly, and ran my finger underneath the lid of the box, breaking the tape seal. I crossed my legs and pulled the box onto my lap. The first box revealed old photographs, yellowed with age but still holding onto moments frozen in time. I sifted through them, recognizing faces that felt both familiar and foreign. There was a photo of a smiling woman with warm brown eyes and flowing chestnut hair—my mother, Clara, the same woman in the ID card - at least that hadn't been a lie. Beside her stood a man with a rugged smile and kind eyes—my father, Peter McAllister. And there, in the background, a young girl with a mischievous grin—my sister, Allison, sitting on top of a much younger version of me with a smile like nothing could ever go wrong.

She looked so much like me, and so much like them. Her head was crowned with a cascade of dark lush curls that seemed to defy gravity just like my mother's, but her face was a picture of our fathers. As I studied them in turn, I couldn't help but notice they shared those narrow but sparkling eyes and delicate noses. I on the other hand looked so much like my mother; her fuller features marking each part of my face.

In one of the folders tucked away in the box, I found records of our family's life. We lived in a cosy suburban neighbourhood, attending Pillwall Elementary School on the other side of the city. My parents worked at a financial business it seemed with stacks of papers and reports labelled with their names - my mother, however, seemed to have stepped into a human resource role mid-way through her career, while my father had become a senior partner.

I stumbled upon a certificate from my karate club, proudly displaying my achievement of a green belt. The memory of practising katas in our backyard came rushing back, the feel of the smooth wooden floor beneath my feet and the sound of my instructor's encouraging voice. Beside it was a tiny pink ballet slipper, a reminder of Allison's brief foray into ballet lessons. I recalled how she would twirl and pirouette around our living room, her laughter filling the air.

Memories started to stir within me, like echoes from a distant past. I remembered snippets of a happy childhood, of laughter and love shared between a family that I had long forgotten. The mention of our holiday home in Orlando brought back memories of summer vacations spent exploring theme parks and building sandcastles on the beach. Our grandparents, who have long since passed away, would join us during each vacation. There was a note attached to a photo of all eight of us - a note about my placement with one of them being considered, but ultimately, the decision to erase all memories related to the family was easier than selectively deciding what they got to keep.

What I hadn't expected in the boxes was a file on Hannah and Timothy. They had a file on all of the families they'd considered placing me with - but it seemed they'd been dropped earlier in the process. In each document concerning my adopted parents, they'd mentioned a deep desire to have children - several miscarriages, two IVF rounds and applications to every adoption agency in the country. What cut me deep was the note they had on Hannah in particular - 'Harrowed over the loss of pregnancies, an emotional vulnerability that can be manipulated in a memory adaption process.'

I had to swallow back tears as the file dropped from my hands and onto my lap, my hand coming up to rub my face harshly. At first, I didn't know what this feeling was, but the more my fingers traced over the edge of the folder, the more I realised that all-too-familiar feeling of guilt rising from my stomach and toying with the edge of my throat.