A Special Box of Memories

Bell’s room, usually a cheerful explosion of color and stuffed animals, felt a little too quiet. She’d been looking for Barnaby, her old teddy bear, the one with the one button eye and the perpetually lopsided smile. Barnaby was a good listener, especially when Bell felt a little wobbly inside. She rummaged through her toy chest, a treasure trove of forgotten adventures, but Barnaby seemed to have vanished. As she dug deeper, her fingers brushed against something stiff and leathery. It was an old photo album, the kind with thick, cream-colored pages and plastic sleeves that crinkled when you touched them.

She pulled it out, blowing a puff of dust that danced in the sunbeam slanting through her window. The cover was faded, a soft blue that had once been quite vibrant. Bell traced the worn edges with her finger. She didn’t remember this album. Carefully, she opened it.

The first page was a picture of her as a tiny baby, swaddled in a pink blanket, her parents looking down at her with soft, adoring smiles. Mom’s hair was shorter then, and Dad’s beard was less gray. Bell felt a tiny flutter in her chest. She turned the page.