Last Memento

Mary struggled to open the old wooden trunk in the sweltering attic of her late grandmother’s house. When the lid finally popped open, Mary gasped, and the tears in her eyes mingled with her sweat; the hand-pieced quilt with rose appliques that she’d wanted as a girl lay folded neatly atop a stack of other treasures. Her brother shouted from the yard, and she slammed the trunk shut, bumped it down the stairs and out the front door. After he flung the match, she thought she could see her grandmother smiling through the fire as it consumed the house.

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