New York, 1994. Unceasing torments. "Photographs of dead people?” Evan wanted to know. “Papa made images of dead people? For who?" “Not just anyone, dear boy,” Sareta calmed him with a hush.
The boxes were nearly identical, but for the dust deeper into the cracks in the wood carvings on this latest one found. Evan had already been inside, but had never told Shelly. It had been discovered on that awful day, she remembered, but he had only told her the barest of facts, there were things hidden under the great window, people hidden in the brick walls across the street. He had never gone into detail, and here was a tantalizing detail, completely forgotten. She wondered what it might contain that he would not really have a lasting interest in opening it again. He lifted the lid and she reacted the same as Sareta, it was terribly important to the family history. Her grandmother breathed a prayer before she even touched the box. She had suspected it contained prayer notes, and she instantly knew why. They were photographs of the dead.
“These would be our dead, Evan,” Shelly said in the same hushed tone. “Papa would have photographed a departed relative, but no other. These were buried ceremoniously, with the prayers. That is why this chest was built. It is an ark.”
Her grandmother smiled and patted her on the knee and they both bent to look deeper into the box.
New York, 1994. Unceasing torments.
"Photographs of dead people?” Evan wanted to know. “Papa made images of dead people? For who?"
“Not just anyone, dear boy,” Sareta calmed him with a hush.