The Man with the Box

The Man always carried the Box. About the size of a shoe box and made of card. It was battered with age and had that sad look, which all boxes of that particular age had. The Man was never seen without it and when asked what was in the box he would just smile and say nothing, which was actually a clue of sorts. People’s curiosity grew but no-one was close enough to the Man, no-one really knew him. He was quiet and spoke infrequently. Rumours grew of what was in the Box. What was in the Box? A severed hand was one suggestion. His dead wife’s ashes was another. Some started to say he was the Devil and in the Box was Hell itself. To look at he was just a man with a box. Take away the Box and he was just the Man, a man like any other. But the Box made him unlike other men. He was the Man with the Box.

When he was found dead the Box was still with him. Empty. No-one would ever know what had been in the Box, or perhaps there never had been anything in there anyway. After all, he was just a man with a box.

The Man with the Box

craig sparks

Fleetwood, United Kingdom

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