Missing a day will get a post of two hundred words. These words do not count. (Or these)
In the safety of her home, she opened the box. It was covered with dust and some spiderwebs. It always amused her how spiders will spin themselves out all over the only thing in a room. The hinges made a rusty kind of noise as they opened, and she got the sense that this was the first time in quite a while since the box had been opened. Her eye hit on the biggest thing in the box first, a very large book loosely wrapped in a stained lacey cloth. As she lifted it from the box, something fell from the wrapping and landed with a hard clunk in the box below.
Old leather, hand bound. The pages within were of thick stock and smelled slightly of must. She began to turn the pages.
Her daughter’s urgent cries made her blink and look up at the clock. Two hours, and no housework done. She had been sitting here for two hours reading this thing. In a panic she stood, dropping the book back into the box. Time to get the baby, time to get real.
Two in the morning, back in her favorite chair, reading.
“Grandmother, ” She thought. “What the hell is this?”