I asked him why.
He just shook his head and said,
“Some things are better left buried in the past.”
After that, the box became almost like a legend in our family.
Years passed.
Eventually, my grandfather passed away peacefully in his sleep at the age of 87.
The house felt different after that.
Quieter.
Emptier.
One rainy afternoon, while cleaning the attic, I saw the box again.
The same dusty wooden chest.
And for the first time…
There was no one left to tell me not to open it.
Curiosity started eating at me.
For a long time I just stood there staring at it.
Then I noticed something strange.
The lock was already broken.
My hands were shaking as I slowly lifted the lid.
Inside the box were dozens of old photographs.
But these weren’t normal family photos.
Every picture showed the same thing.
Our house.
Taken from outside.
But the photos looked like they were taken over decades.
One photo from the 1950s.
Another from the 1970s.
Another from the 1990s.
And in every single photo…
Someone was standing in the attic window.
Watching.
I felt a chill run down my spine.
Because in the most recent photo…
The person standing in the window looked exactly like me.
And the photo had been taken years before I was even born.
