ope,” she whispered.

Pandora lifted the bracelet from the box, all that was left from her younger, bolder days.

She fingered the beads, let the chain slip through her hands. Cool against her wrinkling fingers, the clicking beads soon sent her into a calm, relaxed state. She needed that, after what happened; she needed the repetition to calm her heart, to soothe her anxiety, her fears.

She looked down at the box that lay in her lap, a small replica of that fateful box she opened long ago. Never again did curiosity reign over reason. Never did she question what was asked of her. Beauty was skin deep, even for boxes, and aside from this one she had custom made, she never opened another. She only looked upon them, content with not knowing their contents, but appreciating the secrecy that warranted their casing.

“Yes, there is still hope for me yet.”

© text by Kerrie Colantonio