Page 90 of In the Dust

I place my hands on the only thing that survived the blaze: her bench.It’s covered in ash and soot, but I don’t care.

I run my hand along the burnt fabric, pulling at the tattered remains. Before, it was covered in a red and turquoise pattern, but now it’s just a hunk of metal.

Maybe I can remake it, make it look like hers again.

With the extra money we’ll have left over, I could make an entire new studio and name it after her.

The thought makes my lips turn upward, and with the weight of the decision off me, now I can look to the future. I did what she would have wanted.

I curl my hands around the side to stand, and that’s when I feel something.

I scrape away the ash, realizing when I see a keyhole that the fabric wasn’t originally on this bench, it was a cover.

I need the key.

Where is it?

I try to recall seeing a key in her studio, but I remember the one from the jewelry box.

Rushing inside, I zoom past everyone without a word.

They don’t question it as I run back out, key in hand as I sprint into what’s left of the studio.

My hands are shaking as it inserts. The sound of the lock clicking makes my lips part. I slowly open the top, revealing painting after painting. Drawing after drawing. All of it hers.

I lean my back against the box, covering my mouth with my hand as I try to see past the tears. This is insane. How? How did this all survive?

“I didn’t know she ever used that.” Dad smiles in the doorway. “She never mentioned anything about it.”

“What is it?”

He pats the side of it, coming to sit down beside me. “A fireproof box. I bought it for her probably twenty years ago, and she nearly scoffed.” He laughs at the memory. “She said art was meant to be appreciated, not locked away.”

She was right, and it makes me even more proud that now her paintings will be displayed somewhere instead of locked away in the studio, or even worse, burnt into nothing.

“I wonder if when she got sick, she hid these here for us?”

He shrugs. “Who knows?” He takes one of the paintings, seeing it’s of him. It’s his side profile, and the smile on the drawing looks like the one he has now. “I’m just so thankful we have them.”

I sift through all the work. Tomorrow I’ll go through and catalog and frame everything. Our house will be covered.

I roll one canvas open, seeing it’s of my grandparents. “I think you should bring that one in tonight,” Dad suggests, his fingertips skimming the edge.

“I do too.”

* * *

I come back inside,holding the rolled-up canvas in my shaking hands. We have a frame downstairs, and I go after it. The edges of the frame are rough bark, made from the wood of the family home. I clean the glass and slide the canvas inside, perfect fit.

“Grandpa?” I whisper, not wanting to wake him up. He’s sitting in his chair, comfy under a quilt.

He peeks up, a grin on his face. “Hey, baby. What’s that?”

I turn the frame around, and his hand clamps over his mouth. “My Lily,” he breathes, touching his fingertip to the glass to outline the shape of her face. “I remember this.” He laughs, patting the side of his chair.

I plop down carefully, slinking my arm around him.

He asks, “How did you find this?”

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