After five years of being away, Evie Day hated the fact that she was back in Woodsville, Arkansas. A small town in buck-ass nowhere. Quite frankly, if she’d had a choice, she wouldn’t have come back at all.

But, she was sitting next to her grams, on a warm Septem- ber 6th, in 1991, staring into a photo and the eyes of a mystery woman. Familiar, yet unknown. She was supposed to look for pictures of her grandfather, Ollie, for his funeral.

A few dozen 3x5 and 5x7 photos fanned over the table’s surface—Evie’s heritage. Faded and slightly torn memories of her gramps as a baby, as a strapping young teenager, horse- drawn carriages, funny hats, and early 1900s clothing—that looked more like costumes to Evie—laid out in no particular chronological order. Her grandfather’s life was strewn before her in black and white.

Yet, this one photo stood out like a spotlight on a dark stage. Highlighted. It cried for attention, begged really. Her finger caressed the edge while she rested her head in the opposite hand.

Flipping it over, she looked at the back.

No date.

No name.

She’d often thought of this photo. Its image reappeared

like a reoccurring dream over the past sixteen years, haunting her or perhaps tapping her on the shoulder to find out more, egging her on.

She turned the photo back over. Then, shifting in her chair, she sat up straighter, picked it up, and inhaled it into her nose. The subtle mustiness reminded her of the first time she’d come across it so long ago. She lost herself in a moment of nostalgia.

Turning her body around, she pinpointed where she’d parked her bum on the then-orange, shag-carpeted living room floor, with her back resting against the couch. She saw herself rummaging through the tattered old shoe box and these same timeless family photos. It’s when she’d come across it. The conversation with her grandfather was still fresh in her ears.

“Gramps,” she’d said, with a stammer of anticipation, “who’s this, and what’s in that wooden box?” Her nine-year- old forefinger pointed to the photo as she held it out in her other hand toward her Gramps. He was sitting across from her in his recliner, staring out the picture window at the river and the backyard.

Curiosity all over her face. She loved this sort of thing... a mystery. Her impatience built, and her body tingled with every moment that passed while waiting on the answer.

He’d turned abruptly, rubbed his bald head with his right hand, and glanced down at the photo. It was as if he’d already known which one she held. His face turned red, and he’d shifted in his chair.

He’d said, “That’s an old case of mine, and I don’t want to talk about it!” His voice was sure, deep and sharp. Straightening his suspenders, he got up and flew out of the

room like a deer avoiding an oncoming car.

With her heart heavy, she knew to leave well enough alone

back then.

But this was now, and he was gone.

Turning back around, she continued to study the photo

further. Its sepia background faded from the sixty-four years it sat hidden in the shadows of the tattered shoe box. The crin- kled, thread-sized, white lines that broke up the glossy finish emerged like wrinkles on old skin. The tiny wooden box nes- tled on top of a mound of dirt with various-sized stones ele- vated it, almost as if it were the focal point of the shot. And a tall, younger woman stood next to the focal point box.

Between her grandfather’s curt reaction and the troubling image, that unmistakable curiosity from back then returned, leaving a burning to know more. Like needing to eat, it felt like a life force—something to keep her alive.

She felt it in her veins; perhaps it was in her blood. Really, what was it about this picture that intrigued her? She studied it even closer. Maybe it was the woman’s eyes;

they weren’t peering into the camera. Instead, they were look- ing straight ahead and off into the distance. Most certainly not at the box. Like she was trying hard not to look. They cried out a pain that tinged Evie’s heart. The woman stood stiffly to the left of the elevated wooden box, with her hands cupped in front of her. She wore a dark, floor-length dress with a crino- line, making the lower half fuller. Evie guessed it to be thirties fashion. Her dark hair was pulled back into a bun. She sported no bangs.

Evie’s imagination sizzled.

Who is she?

Is she related to us? What happened?

And probably the most intriguing...Why did gramps keep this photo if he didn’t want to talk about it?

The tiny, plain, wooden box was slightly larger than that of the shoe box holding the photos, Evie thought. Perhaps the wooden box was about the size of a small carry-on. And now that Evie was no longer nine-years-old but twenty-three, she recognized that the wooden box wasn’t a box at all but was, in fact, a tiny coffin.