Inside is a rotting old couch, a 1950s wooden high chair, modern plastic Disney toys, and a 12-candle platter like an altar in the middle. Several pages of scribbles from a little girl named Helen, who wrote the word MUSIC several times in large childish lettering.
Then in a tiny controlled corner of the back of the page, “And now I know.”
Underneath is a deep, cold root cellar.
I don’t know whether to claim squatter’s rights and start writing there, or keep a respectfully wide margin spooked by the backstory I’m certain it has.