I washed my son, and dressed him, and I did what was necessary. When I dream badly, or when I am afraid and sleepless for whatever reason, it is not his ghost that comes to me, but the ghost of the box with its fine marquetry and endlessly regressing angles chased in metal around the lock. I see it, in the dark by my bed, or being carried through the door. I hear the heavy tread of the bearers and remember their faces, their eyes skittering away from mine. I smell the wood and the honey, hear the creaking hinges, and I awake and scream and shiver. I do not ever go back to sleep after that dream. I take myself downstairs and work, or cook, or clean, until the sun comes up and I can open all my doors and know that the box is not hiding there, waiting for me.