“Then why keep winding it?”
“Because Shaun hated it when it stopped.”
I slipped it into my pocket.
***
We moved to Aria’s room.
She had been nine. She loved sewing dresses for her dolls, though every seam leaned because she pulled the thread too tight.
Her unfinished dollhouse still sat near the window, its front door hanging crooked.
“Don’t touch that,” I said.
“You’ve had 40 years to fix it.”
My legs weakened, so I sat on Aria’s bed.
A sharp crack sounded beneath me.
Jackson turned.
“Was that the frame?”
“No.”
“How do you know?”
“I repaired wood for 45 years. That sound came from inside the mattress.”
We turned it over and found a puckered seam with tight, uneven stitches.
“Aria did this,” I said. “She always pulled the thread too tight.”
I cut the seam, reached inside, and pulled out a dust-covered wooden box.
