What if you could go back in time?
What if, one day, when you were a grown-up, you went back to your old home and climbed the ladder into your parents’ attic?
And, way in back, in a dim corner, barely illuminated by the flashlight in your hand, there was a box, a trunk, a large, dusty wooden trunk, with a lock that used a skeleton key?
So you contemplate whether or not to open it, to turn the key and open the lock, carefully, because you don’t know what might be in there, and the attic was a place that you seldom entered when you were a kid, not only because it was hard to get to, but because it was a cold and dark and drafty and scary place, and only the grown-ups were allowed in there.
Still, you want to know what is in the trunk.
Because you know it contains memories.
It is filled with the kind of memories that generations more than a hundred years ago could never have: photographs.
Not only photographs, but the negatives, too, a treasure-trove of memories.
But whose memories?
And when they join you in the present, are they the ghosts that you once thought haunted the attic?
