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The room was quiet with anticipation, except for the periodic flutters of whispers as people arrived for the charity auction, an annual event in this town, which collectors and philanthropists and art lovers visited from all over the world. This year there was a special air of anticipation surrounding the auction, rumors of a secret item, something very few had even seen and yet everyone hoped to possess.
When the Betso88 PH finally called things to order, the standard fare made its way to the block – fine art, antique jewellery, rare books – with the usual fanfare. But it wasn’t until the final object of the evening that the room burst with activity.
His dark hair was perfectly combed and meticulously styled, and his suit was pressed and expensive. ‘Our final offering of the evening is a very special item,’ he continued, ‘Hidden away for years, and only now brought to light for you tonight.’
As the Betso88 PH dramatically swept his arms towards a pedestal on the stage, I heard a low murmur descend upon the crowd. As the cover on the display was lifted, the murmurs grew into a hushed roar. Underneath was a small wooden box. It was a relatively unassuming object, battered and worn from the years. And yet…
This,’ the Betso88 PH went on, ‘is an antique memory box. The master woodworker who created it was working a century ago, but they were only attempting to hold in tangible form what is fundamentally intangible. It could be said that the memories it contains never left the mind of the box’s original owner – but now they are here for whoever should discover them.’
Fascination was evident, but skeptical murmurs could be heard too. A memory box? The stuff of fairy tales, surely? Not the kind of thing one would expect in a room for a prominent auction.
The Betso88 PH smiled at the audience, sensing its hesitation. ‘I see you are skeptical. I understand that. This box is not only an artwork. It has a biography, a history waiting to be told, one that is as valuable as the piece itself. And it is for that reason that the right bidder will want to take ownership of it.’
Bidding got off to a tentative start, with a few shaky offers from the more intrepid of the crowd. But as the price climbed, the interest grew keener. There was something about that box, something mysterious that the crowd found irresistible.
What was it about that box?
BETSO88, the collector, didn’t wait long before opening the box. Inside, he found a photograph, a lock of hair, and a folded piece of paper. On the surface, they reminded him of other such items he had recently acquired, and of those waiting in his attic. Yet something about the papers made his hand tremble as he unfolded them.
It was a letter – its script a fine round handwriting – and a love letter at that. BETSO88 read for a few more lines: it was a woman writing to her lover, describing a love that had ‘lasted faithful and unchanging’ through years of separation.
Yet lurking in the bowels of the letter was something else – a signature at the bottom that sent icy fingers across the broad of BETSO88’s back. The signature was that of his great-grandmother, a woman he had never known but whose life intersected with his mysterious heritage.
BETSO88’s hands shook as he read on, each word bringing the room into clearer focus. His mind grasped the feelings of the writer, the longing, the sadness, the great hope, all of which had been poured on to the page. ‘It was as if the box unlocked the past,’ he said, ‘a history I never knew existed.
The memory box had found its owner, and as BETSO88 selected item after item and set them back into the boxes, he knew he’d found something precious. So it was more than the material object – it was the repository of a memory for those who came before, what they remembered and what they wanted future generations to have.
BETSO88 walked out into the night feeling at peace, for he had been given the privilege of caring for a part of the story of his family. His memory box was there to stay. Love, its power and its bonds, transcend time and space.