I can’t tell you how long I’ve been in here. Years, decades, certainly. The house has been bought and sold many times, families have come and go: the abuser and his alcoholic wife; the newlyweds with the seven little dogs; the elderly lady who only lasted two months; the gay couple. Now it’s a woman and her three children, clearly fleeing from a divorce.
It’ll be one of the kids, sneaking up into the attic. Not for several years — they’re too little now — but it’ll happen. They’ll find the heavy oaken chest and they’ll open it, and I’ll be free.