Ever since she could remember the locket had always been there, in her mother’s silver gilt jewellery box. It looked old. She had never seen her mother wearing it.
It was silver with a pattern made of dirt so naturally ornate, curling and curving over its oval figure.
It was beautiful, and, she thought, something to treasure, something important, judging by its enclosed existence inside its red velvet house on her mother’s oak dressing table. The clasp was stuck fast, so the contents of the locket had always been a secret, and always will be, in her eyes.
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