The carriage swayed in a gentle, comforting rhythm as Mr. Rye expertly guided the horses through the darkening streets. Delia sat perfectly still, the small, carved wooden box resting on her lap like a heavy secret. It was cool to the touch, its surface worn smooth with age. She ran her fingers over the intricate patterns, her mind replaying Eric's last words to her.
"Promise me you won't open it till you get home."
The promise was a catalyst increasing her curiosity. Every bump in the road, every turn of the wheel, seemed to amplify the box's presence. What could be inside? Another apology? An explanation? A farewell? A thousand possibilities, each more unsettling than the last, paraded through her thoughts. She relaxed back into the plush leather seat, closing her eyes and forcing herself to breathe deeply, to simply wait.
