Inside a chest, enclosed in the dark oak of memories a solitary feeling scuttles around in the dark, seeking, knowing once it had been so much more. It has tried to escape, sneaking through cracks. It hears its name whispered across the air, sometimes it recognises the voice and other times it does not. But the black tar that lines the lid stings and it goes back to resting in the darkest corner.
The man looks down upon this chest, small and heavy. The key in his hand, worn down by the years since it had last been used. The surface of the chest is old and stained, it released a stench of fear and regret as he pulled out from the ground that he had buried it in so long ago. The handles slippery with the vile black substance the chest secreted. He had become angry with it, as he pulled it from its grave. His hands slipped and the dirt kept falling, covering the chest. The labour was painful and tiring, but he knew the chest and his buried emotions must be exhumed.