Therapy Bits

The door was closed, and as I put my hand on the handle, I felt afraid of what I might find once I opened it. The soft wooden surface felt cool against my palm, but it was the darkness looming on the other side that sent tremors of doubt through my veins. Every instinct urged me to turn back, to leave the door shut and the secrets it concealed undisturbed.

I took a deep breath, willing my heart to settle. It had been weeks since my grandmother had passed away, and in that time, I had avoided this particular door—her study. She had always been a woman of peculiar habits, but it was the air of mystery that surrounded her after her death that had driven me back here, to the small cottage she had called home. All the other rooms held memories of laughter and warmth, but this one promised something different: answers to questions I hadn’t yet dared to voice.

My fingers gripped the handle tightly as I turned it. The door creaked open, revealing a room steeped in shadow. Dust motes danced in the faint light that filtered through the cracks in the heavy wooden shutters. The scent of aged books and incense lingered in the air, blending with something more elusive, something akin to forgotten memories.

Inside, the room was cluttered yet inviting, filled with towering bookshelves that sagged under the weight of leather-bound tomes. A writing desk stood against the far wall, adorned with peculiar artifacts—a crystal globe, an ornate quill, and a delicate silver hourglass that seemed to beckon me closer. I took a hesitant step inside, crossing the threshold as if entering a sacred space.

I felt compelled to approach the desk first. My grandmother had never spoken much of her writings, often referring to her journals as “the echoes of her heart.” I scanned the surface and found a stack of journals, their spines cracked with age, each one inscribed with careful handwriting. The title on the topmost journal caught my eye, “The Keeper of Secrets.”

With trembling fingers, I opened it. The pages were filled with her elegant script, revealing snippets of her life—childhood tales, reflections on love lost, and fears unspoken. But then, abruptly, the entries shifted. My heart quickened as I read passages about a hidden family curse, spoken only in whispers. My great-grandmother, it seemed, had been accused of witchcraft, and my grandmother had spent her life trying to reconcile the weight of that legacy.

As I flipped through the pages, one particular entry sent a chill down my spine. “To break the curse, one must confront the Past,” it read, followed by a list of names, including my own. I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end, the heavy burden of inherited fears pressing down on me. What had my grandmother known that she never dared to share?

Just then, something caught my eye from the corner of the room. A tall, intricately carved wooden cabinet stood closed, almost as if it were watching me. I felt an unexplained pull toward it, and I moved closer, the creak of the floorboards echoing my tension. My heart raced as I traced the carvings—the winding vines, the faces woven into the woodwork, and the keyhole beckoning me forward.

I knelt before it, my fingers trembling as I fished through my pockets for the small key I had found nestled in her jewelry box earlier in the day. It felt warm in my palm, heavy with unspoken promises. I inserted it into the keyhole and turned it slowly. The lock clicked, and the door swung open, revealing a collection of keepsakes—dried herbs, faded photographs, and a small, intricately woven pouch.

Inside the pouch lay crystal shards that shimmered with an otherworldly light. I held one up to the dim rays filtering through the shutters, and for a brief moment, I saw flashes of

Fandango’s Story Starter #172 – Facts, Fictions & Fantasies