She knew the key was old, but which of these musty boxes did it belong to?
Was it the delicate wooden box, with the engraving of a rose?
Was it the box that had once been a bright red, but due to age, faded to a pale pink?
Box after box, she tried to find the perfect fit.
She sighed in frustration, brushing cobwebs out of her hair.
There was one box left.
It was small, resembling a jewellery box, made from light wood.
Her hand shook with excitement as she shoved the key into the lock.
The key turned, opening the box.
Slowly, she lifted the lid, her eyes resting on a small black gun. A note sat on top.
You know what to do.
“Oh God.” She muttered.