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She drummed her fingers on the top of the box, contemplating what to do with it. She walked on eggshells despite knowing that he was gone. She finally decided to bury the box in the hope chest, hoping it would keep the ghost at bay.
She inhaled the fresh scent of cedar when she opened the chest and shuffled the stuff around. A stack of yellowed newspapers rested in the bottom corner. She pulled one loose and unfolded it. A faded photograph of a young girl in a ballet dress smiled back at her from the front page. Olivia was distracted by a long forgotten past when the valet fell to the floor. The mess it made resembled an upset coffin with rigid limbs askew, hanging out of the sides. She ignored it and spread the newspaper across the foot of the bed, fascinated by a distant girl. She ran her hand over the picture wanting to animate the memory.

Olivia was a dancer. She and Harold met following a performance of La Sylphide. She felt his eyes many times, following her as she performed. Harold watched her for months before approaching her. He was captivated by her supernal grace and gentle beauty. Harold was much older and accustomed to having his way. He was a wealthy business man and was used to no less than the very best of everything ' and that included women. He set out to have Olivia, wining and dining and buying her away from her passion. She succumbed without much of a fight. She lost herself before she ever knew what happened. Nothing could be more important than Harold.
Olivia buried her true love deep inside of the hope chest, long before she buried her husband. She gave up the dance to host important parties and follow his Pygmalion lead. All that remained of her former life was a stack of old papers and a faded garment bag hidden in the attic armoire. When they first married, she danced alone in the attic. It was the only secret she ever kept from him. Her tired back protested as she bent over and picked up the lighter she dropped on the floor. Olivia kicked the rest of the things under the bed and turned to leave. She slipped the lighter in her front pocket before she closed the door.
She padded up the stairs in step with the long shadows cast by the hall light. The floor creaked beneath her feet. Turning the knob she leaned on the heavy wooden door. It cracked open with a quiet pop breaking a ten-year-old seal. A whoosh of air rushed around her. The light switch by the door was worthless. Olivia fished the lighter out of her pocket. The flint sparked

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