• Stewart, a man at the age of forty-six, lost all of his possessions following the death of his beloved wife. Everyday he would sit at the old run-down fishing pier to watch the sunset that reminded him so much of his precious wife. The terrible mess of the pier drove others away in disgust, but Stewart welcomed it with open arms and a soft smile, for he knew what it was like to be driven away because he himself was old and run-down, much like the pier. It replaced the empty void in his heart that was created by his wife’s sudden passing. She bore no children for him, but he was still content with what they did have--love.
    Stewart smiled as the sun’s color faded into a dreamy, hazy red and orange and lowered to the horizon, seemingly melting into the ocean while the tides gently pushed and pulled in a continuous motion. He adored the sound of passing sea birds, squawking in communication. He scratched at the stubble that grew around his sturdy chin and strong jaws, listening closely to the sweet sound of the waves as he closed his tired eyes.
    Before he could even think of sleeping on such a peaceful day, his eyes shot open when he heard the hard thump against the wood of the pier from a little ways over. He furrowed his brow, squinting, wanting to find the source of this disturbance. When he couldn’t find the source with his old, tired eyes, he decided to get up and go have a look.
    Passing the crates full of things only God knew of, he was careful not to step on the broken glass shards of alcohol bottles that people sometimes threw onto the pier, for his feet were vulnerable to their attacks. Behind a broken crate stacked atop another old crate, was a fish. A fish with such beautiful scales it was heavenly. It frantically thumped and thrashed around, gasping for air as its tail smacked against the crates and floorboards, causing that disruptive noise which grabbed his attention in the first place.
    His heart ached for the fish, reminding him of the way his wife passed, suddenly gasping and falling over. He carefully gathered the fish in his strong, callused hands and took it to the edge of the pier. As he extended his arms to drop it back into the ocean, it spit out out a tiny key and jumped out of his compassionate hands.
    Utterly confused, he ran his fingers through the tangled mess of his hair and bent down, picking up the object. He studied it and flipped it over only to find the words, “My love...”, engraved into it.
    He didn’t understand at all.
    What would a fish be doing with a key in its gullet?, he thought.
    He couldn’t fathom the idea of what this fateful encounter could possibly mean. Because of this, not wanting to take something that surely belonged to someone’s beloved, he gripped the key in his fist and slowly pulled his arm back. As he prepared himself to launch the key back to where it came, he heard the wind call out to him, whispering softly in his ears with a soothing breeze.
    The crate...use the key..., the wind said, the sound much like that of an apparition with the voice of a woman. A voice much like his late wife’s.
    Stewart, too stunned by what the disembodied voice said to move, froze in place. The crate...the crate...use the key, Stew...use the key...use the key..., it chanted.
    Instead of following the voice’s instructions, he almost dropped the small, delicate key in sudden realization. What caused such fear in his heart you may ask? No, not because of the ghost-like voice, but because he knew only his wife called him “Stew”.
    The crate!, the voice shouted when Stewart didn’t obey.
    “M-Marie?”, he stuttered, his dreary blue eyes wide.
    The crate, my love...the crate....
    Stewart tried to swallow, but failed, the saliva in his mouth now dried up. “What...crate?”, he finally asked, his arms falling down to his sides as he looked out at the romantic dreamland of a sunset in a daze.
    The breeze suddenly ramped off the scale and pushed him into a single large wooden crate. A crate he’d seen many times yet paid it no mind. A crate containing only what God had knowledge of.
    The key..., his wife whispered again, her voice slowly beginning to fade away.
    “Marie! Don’t leave! “, he cried, looking to and fro frantically. He called out for her, but she did not cry out for him nor speak to him again. Feeling tears form in his eyes and sting them, he collapsed over the crate shown to him by Marie and sobbed.
    When he could cry no longer, he sniffed and wiped his tears away with his tattered sleeve. He opened his tight fist and stared at the tiny key while he rubbed his bush brow and wiped at his cheek. Taking Marie’s advice, he searched along the sides of the crate until he finally found the lock. He managed to get the key into the lock after getting his hands to stop shaking, and turned it, hearing the loud click of the lock.
    Not knowing what he would find inside, he opened the lid with caution, only to gasp and stagger back, almost stepping on a broken glass shard.
    The crate, now ajar, was filled with riches only your imagination could conjure up. His hand shot up to his beard-covered mouth as his eyes widened with happiness. “Marie...”, he whispered. “Thank you.”
    “Thank you...”