My grandfather lived with us for most of my childhood.
He was a quiet man, the kind who always seemed to carry secrets behind his eyes.
But there was one thing he was very serious about.
The old wooden box in the attic.
I remember the first time I asked him about it. I must have been around eight years old.
We were cleaning the attic when I noticed a small, dusty wooden chest sitting in the corner. It looked ancient — dark wood, metal corners, and a small rusted lock.
“Grandpa, what’s inside this box?” I asked.
His reaction was immediate.
His face went pale.
He quickly closed the attic door and said something I never forgot.
“Whatever you do… never open that box.”
