She Only Used to be Yours

During the winter, oak trees keep their dead leaves, which remain brown and wilted until spring. Marcescense is when a tree's leaves persist through the winter season. The leaves transition from vibrant greens to warm oranges before turning brown like dirt in a graveyard. You die a little in the winter, but some people hold on to life. 

Anne exuded empathy through her actions, her unwavering sympathy evident in the way she comforted others. Some nights, Anne would lie awake, her thoughts echoing in the empty room like ghosts, yearning for a listening ear that never came. A photo of a man holding a woman always stayed close by Anne's bedside, a reminder of love and loss intertwined in her heart. I could immediately recognize these people in the photo were related to Anne; they stood closely, laughing and holding each other's arms with the same dark eyes. Another frame smaller in size stood beside the photo of the man and woman. This frame, however, was of Anne and another girl, laughing and holding a string of ribbon between them. It reminded me of the string of fate from Greek mythology.

I wondered what secrets lay hidden beneath the surface and yearned to uncover more about the individual in the photo, despite never witnessing their presence at the house. 

One evening we heard a knock at the door; I could hear her descending the stairs. Re-entering the room a few moments later, she held a box, wearing an expression not just of puzzlement but also fear. 

What could be inside that silenced her so profoundly, shrouding the room in an eerie stillness? She seemed to be holding her breath, her actions reflecting a sense of anticipation or anxiety. 

Sitting at her desk with the unopened box before her, she cast a wary glance toward the photo of the girl. Then she carefully opened the box. 

A small note rested atop another box inside. She began to read the note, then suddenly dropped it back into the box and pushed herself to the back of her chair, as far as she could go. A small gasp escaped her, and I discerned that tears were beginning to fall.

After some time, she stood up and opened the window to the frigid exterior. Anne's actions took an enigmatic turn as she extended her hand out of the window, as though grasping for an ethereal presence in the starlit night sky. Anne did not do well in the cold, usually succumbing to some sort of head cold or sniffle, so I was surprised that she sat out the window for so long.

Retreating inside, she wiped away the remnants of her tears, feeling their sting like tiny daggers, a far cry from the gentle snowflake kisses her mother once described. She picked up the note once again. 

This time, as she began to read aloud, "Anne, Merry Christmas." Another sharp gasp and sob escaped her. 

“I can't wait to talk when this ... when this gets to you ... Like a key that opens doors, you have opened so many for me. I love you so much.”

Anne covered her eyes as tears poured into her hands. Leaving the note on the desk, she opened the smaller box inside. It contained a necklace in the shape of a key, crafted from gleaming silver, adorned with a beautifully set blue stone, Anne's favorite color, and a small moon at the end in place of the teeth. 

She closed the box and climbed into bed without a sound, eventually drifting into sleep. 

Without my knowledge, Anne disappeared overnight without leaving any clues, making me realize the chilling truth that I had missed her departure.  

The only things missing were the photograph of the couple, a few books, and some clothes.

Weeks passed in silence after Anne's disappearance, with nothing but my presence. One fateful day, a young woman arrived at the house, bringing an air of mystery with her. There was something hauntingly familiar about her. She stood in the street, pacing until finally she gathered her resolve, ascended the steps to the house, and lightly knocked on the door. The door swung open slightly. 

Alarmed, she cautiously entered, climbing the staircase and reaching Anne's room. She knocked softly once more. “Anne?” 

Opening the door, she spotted the box and note on the desk. Opening the box, she beheld the delicate necklace nestled on the plush velvet and instinctively let out a small cry.

Oh, what words would I share with her if given the chance? 

I would have told you that Anne had come here to escape something. As the months went by, I learned that she was running from someone, and it was you. I would have told you that she came here to forget you, but how do you forget something that sits in your room, like the photograph?

How do you move forward when everything around you is a memory?

If I could, I would have warned you never to visit or send gifts here because Anne has made it clear—she does not want to be found. I need to inform you that your key no longer fits the lock on her door. 

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About the Author

Morada Rivera is a mixed Puerto Rican American author and librettist, actively developing a musical that echoes the themes of RENT, La boheme, and Hell's Kitchen. Residing with her dog, you'll always find her humming a new idea, scribbling a new short story, and rhyming words out loud.