The Box of Forgotten Promises Recently, Vera began to suspect that, aside from herself and her husb…

THE BOX OF FORGOTTEN PROMISES

Recently, Ive started to suspect that aside from myself and Alice, someone else might be living in our house. Its not a ghost, mind you Ive always thought ghosts are too dignified to mess about with trivialities. No, this was something quite different. Something ordinary, yet impossible to explain. A bit of domestic mischief, as if a cheeky house elf had taken up residence.

It began with my gym socks disappearing. Only one at first, typical, really every bloke knows the washing machine eats socks for breakfast. But these were my white ones with the red stripe, the pair I always grabbed for my runs. They seemed to glare at me from the drawer whenever I opened it, as if to say, Remember us? Whens the last time you bothered going for a run? Then, one day, one was gone and the next day, so was the other.

Oddly enough, they turned up a week later, curled together like snails, exactly where they were supposed to be. There was a scruffy bit of grey paper on top, with typewritten letters, just a bit wonky:

You left us untouched for 127 days. We were counting.

I rounded on Alice, who was calmly scrolling through her phone on the sofa. Alright, I said, is this your idea of a hint? Are you trying to tell me I should get back to the gym?

She just looked at me, completely befuddled, and denied everything.

Fine, have it your way I muttered, though I couldnt quite shake the suspicion. Alice loves a joke more than anyone.

Then her favourite hair clip vanished the one she always left under the hall mirror. Next, her expensive lipstick, the shade she saved for special occasions, went missing from her handbag.

Of course, both turned up together, tucked neatly inside a kitchen cupboard amidst the packets of rice and spaghetti. Each had a note.

Pinned to the hair clip:
Make up your mind do you want long hair or short? Im tired of being abandoned for months, only to be missed later.

On the lipstick:
And when was the last special occasion? Im about to dry out over here.

This isnt funny, Alice hissed, shaking me awake during my pre-dinner nap on the sofa.

Have you lost your mind? I snapped back. Why would I wind myself up with silly games like that?

I suppose I saw her point. I can crack a joke, but Im not a fool and the tension in the house was getting under my skin.

Alice became hyper-aware, trying to memorise where she put every single thing. Shed double-back to check, even made an appointment with our GP, just in case. After some memory tests, the old doctor laughed and told her, Your memorys sharper than mine, my dear.

But things kept disappearing. Favourite pens, her stripy blouse, her hand cream. And then, the grand finale: the keys to the allotment. She heard about that one for days.

I could see how on edge it made her jumping at any creak, barely sleeping, constantly checking her phone, purse, and keys.

One Saturday, Alice decided to finally tackle her overstuffed wardrobe. She dragged out shoeboxes and old shopping bags and found, tucked deep at the back, every single thing that had gone missing. Laid out perfectly, like stock in a charity shop window.

Her blouse was wrapped around a pleated skirt. A note:
Have you forgotten how to dance?

Her pens, arranged by colour.
You chew us when youre stressed. Were tired of living in fear.

The keys, all looped together with a London bus keyring, as if they were holding hands.
Wed got bored and went for a wander no one visits the allotment nowadays. But, unlike some, we came back on our own.

Alice was speechless.

Those scraps of paper were sly, wise, and had a tinge of sadness like something she wrote to herself, but in a lifetime where she had spare minutes to chat with her belongings.

Just as she prepared to shut the box, she noticed another note in the corner. No object this time. Just a piece of paper, edges wrinkled as if theyd grown damp.

You promised the girl in the mirror youd be an artist.
I am that girl.
And its awfully lonely here, in the box with broken promises and faded dreams.

Alice sat on the wardrobe floor for ages, wedged between crammed shelves, lost in thought.

She remembered herself as a child, tongue sticking out, drawing houses and sunshine with her felt-tips, her family all smiling. The thrill of watercolours at school, watching them swirl and bleed on the page. The scent of oil paints at her weekend art club. The hush of galleries. Every brushstroke felt like casting a spell.

First, she thought art would be her life. Then, perhaps, a hobby. Finally nothing. She didnt run out of time, just kept putting it off until the gentle glow of anticipation faded away disappearing just like the socks and the keys.

Alice traced her finger over the final note.
She couldve sworn it felt warmer, and like it shivered under her touch. Or perhaps it was just her hands trembling.

Was another hour at the shopping centre or another detective novel really more important than her dream?

That night, neither of us slept well. Around two, Alice eventually slipped out of bed.

Where are you headed? I mumbled.

Dont worry go back to sleep, she murmured.

She had a thought about some old paints buried among the boxes in the wardrobe. Passing the hall mirror, she caught the reflection of that same childhood girl, cautious but hopeful.

There are days when little losses really are warnings. Sorting out the mystery of the missing things reminded us that quietly broken promises, even to ourselves, matter. If you dont look after your dreams, you might just lose them at the back of a box, under a mountain of perfectly ordinary life.