There was a plain, unmarked box with no return address on my front door. There was also no sender name. The only courtesy the sender showed was to print my name in neat, block letters on the label.
The box was very light weight, but, after digging through a bed of tissue papers, inside was a single worn out looking key. The key looked as though it has opened and closed a thousand doors.
Upon a closer look at the box, I noticed a folded note hidden under the tissue papers with four words written in shaky handwriting:
This belongs to you.
I stared at it for a long time.
Was this some kind of joke? It definitely has to be some kind of prank.
But my name that was on the package showed someone had sent it to me purposely.
What exactly belongs to me?
That question left me worried for days. At first, I told myself to ignore it. I had work to do, bills to pay. But being the naturally curious person that I am, the key sitting on my nightstand called to me.
Then one day, an address appeared in my inbox.
The mail was just as vague as the box I had received. No sender. No message. Just an address.
Curiosity won.
So, I hailed a cab and headed to the address. I don’t remember turning onto the quiet street. But I do remember stopping in front of the house.
It was just a modest, two-story home. It didn’t look creepy at all. At least that’s how I convinced myself to walk up to the door and see if the key could unlock it.
It did. The key slid into the lock smoothly, like it had been waiting for me all along.
Inside, the house felt abandoned, with dust floating in the sunlight through the glass windows. The few furnitures in the living area were covered with white sheets.
But what drew my attention was a row of framed photographs that somehow looked spectacular in the midst of the dust and feeling of abandon in the air.
My heart stopped.
There, in the center, was a picture of my younger self. Around the picture were other framed photographs of people I didn’t recognize.
Why was a picture of me in a house I had never been to?
I turned to leave, but something on the coffee table caught my eye. There was a small box. The same kind that had arrived at my doorstep.
Inside, another note, written in the same shaky handwriting.
Welcome home.
Which kain wahala be this?
This seemed like the beginning of a hollywood classic. And I might have taken the steps to satisfy my curiosity, but I definitely wasn’t naive enough to want to see how this story ends.
I locked the door, and hurried back to the safety of my apartment.
Images were generated using AI