The Locked Box of Memories

Morning light filtered through the studio's skylight, casting diamond-shaped patches on the slate-gray floor tiles. I crouched before the workbench, fingertips holding a hair-thin bamboo sword, carefully removing verdigris from the intricate patterns of the bronze wine vessel. The air was filled with the mingled scent of turpentine and old wood; this was the place I had worked for ten years, and also the home I shared with Sigmund Leonard. The studio took up most of the first floor, while the second floor housed our bedroom and study. Sigmund carried a cup of warm chrysanthemum tea over, his footsteps light so as not to disturb the work in my hands. "Take a break; your eyes must be tired." He placed the cup at the edge of the workbench, cushioning its base with a soft cloth to avoid any sound. I nodded, and as I straightened up, a slight ache stirred in my lower back and abdomen. Sigmund Leonard had already picked up the scattered rubbings on the table and neatly arranged them one by one by their numbers, his movements so practiced it was as if he had done it a thousand times. When I first met him, he was at the Cultural Relics Bureau's Restoration Center, wielding tools far more delicate than those I have now. But now, the only calluses on his fingertips were the thin ones left from brewing tea—no longer the hardened skin formed from restoring bronze artifacts. "This afternoon, I'm going to the secondhand market to see if I can find a suitable bristle brush." I took a sip of chrysanthemum tea, warmth flowing gently down my throat. "I'll go with you." Sigmund Leonard placed the carefully arranged rubbings into the Wooden Box. "By the way, please replace two window screens in the studio; I saw mosquitoes flying in yesterday." I responded with a "hmm," my gaze settling on the silver bracelet around his wrist. That bracelet was left by his mentor; he seldom took it off. I asked him once, and he only said, "It's a keepsake," without going into detail. The flea market was sparsely populated that afternoon; the sunlight made the old items on the stalls burningly hot. Sigmund Leonard walked to my left, instinctively shielding my arm when passing through narrow aisles, afraid I might be scratched by the wooden boxes piled along the roadside. "This bristle brush is quite good." I stopped in front of a stall selling old tools and picked up a brush with densely packed bristles. The stall owner was an elderly man with graying hair, smiling as he said, "Miss, you repair things, right? This brush is one I used in my youth for furniture restoration—very sturdy." Sigmund paid, placed the brush into his cloth bag, then casually picked up a small bronze incense burner beside it: "Take this as well; the incense holder in the studio needs replacing." Watching him select items so earnestly, I suddenly recalled when we had just gotten married. At that time, he was still working at the Restoration Center. Every day when he came home, he smelled of bronze patina, and there were always tiny wounds on his fingers. I asked him if it hurt. He said, "I'm used to it," then took out a small stone from his bag that he had picked up at the construction site, saying, "I saw this today and thought you would like it." Now, he no longer handles restoration work, yet he remembers my preferences more clearly than anyone. When I returned home, a gilded envelope lay in the mailbox—an invitation to a celebration from our alma mater's archaeology department. "Are you going to the celebration next month?" I held the envelope and asked Sigmund Leonard. He was washing fruit in the kitchen; upon hearing this, he paused, and the sound of running water became especially clear in the quiet room. "Go ahead, it's been a long time since we last returned to school." He placed the washed apples on the plate, his tone betraying no emotion. The weather was fine on the day of the celebration; the campus was filled with students in uniform and alumni returning for the event. Sigmund Leonard and I walked along the tree-lined path beside the teaching building where we used to attend classes. "Do you still remember this classroom? The first time we had the Bronze Artifact Restoration class, you knocked over the teacher's toolbox." I said with a smile. Sigmund Leonard's lips curved slightly, but his eyes held no amusement: "Remember, you even laughed at me for being clumsy back then." As we spoke, an elderly man in a suit approached—it was Professor Johnson, our former department head. "Sigmund! Long time no see!" Professor Johnson gripped Sigmund Leonard's hand, his voice brimming with excitement. "You were once Selena Donovan's most distinguished student. If she were still here, she would surely be proud of you." Sigmund Leonard stiffened, slowly releasing Professor Johnson's hand, his voice hoarse: "Professor Johnson, I'm no longer involved in restoration work." Professor Johnson paused for a moment, then sighed, "Ah, I know. After Selena passed away, you resigned." "Selena was such a wonderful person; how could she have suddenly passed away...?"