Dreaming again

You hand me a box.

It is beautiful, carved with intricate designs and red inlay patterns. I’m more intrigued by the box itself than what might be inside it. I turn it over and over in my hands, a perfect cube with no obvious opening mechanism, and examine the patterns that cover it. I see stars and curling leaves and, on the bottom, a tiny train. It is a steam train, flecked with silver, and I wonder where I’ve seen it before.

“Open it,” you tell me, ” open it now… I need you to share this”

Again, I turn it around and look for a way inside; there seems to be none. I tell you I don’t know how, and you reply that I have the key. I can’t work it out.

“It holds my secrets,” you say. “It has the answers. But I can’t open it for you.” You look almost desperate, frustrated that I can’t work it out, and you shake your head.

“I’m sorry,” I say, “Tell me how, please, and I’ll look.” But you don’t. I hear the train, in my head, interfering with my concentration. And then you are gone.

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