“Olivia, for heaven’s sake, let’s just smash this blasted wardrobe—I can’t take it anymore!” Emma hurled a box of Grandma’s porcelain teacups onto the floor, and they chimed like an angry choir. The flat of their late grandma, thick with the scent of dust, old books, and the faint sweetness of forgotten toffees, was buried under boxes, bags, and memories. In the centre of the living room, like an ancient sentinel, stood a massive oak wardrobe, locked with a rusted clasp. Its dark doors, cracked varnish and carved patterns almost mocking the sisters, guarding its secrets.
Olivia, the elder sister, wiped sweat from her brow with the sleeve of her grey jumper, her chestnut hair escaping its messy ponytail. She shot Emma a look of irritation.
“Smash it? Are you mad, Em? It’s an antique! We could sell it for three grand if we don’t wreck it. And here you are, waving a hammer about like you’re in some heist film.”
Emma, the younger sister, with her tousled blonde curls and a battered denim jacket, scoffed, planting her hands on her hips. Her bangles clinked like a battle cry.
“Antique? It’s junk, Liv! Grandma hadn’t opened it in years. Probably full of moth-eaten scarves and yellowed letters. We need to find the key, not go at it like vandals!”
Olivia tossed the rag she’d been dusting shelves with and stepped closer, her brown eyes flashing.
“The key? And where exactly do you plan to look? The attic? We’ve got a week to clear this flat before the estate agent takes possession! I’ve got a car loan hanging over me, Em, and you’re here dreaming about scarves!”
Emma threw her hands up, her voice trembling.
“Loan? Like I’m not struggling? I’m freelancing, jobs are scarce, and Paul’s barely covering the bills! But I won’t sell Grandma’s home like she never existed—this is our history, Liv!”
The argument froze when Daniel, Olivia’s husband, barged in with a toolbox. His dark beard was glistening with sweat, his checkered shirt dusty from the attic.
“Girls, at it again?” he said, setting the box down with a thud. “Let me just pry it open, and we can move on. Bet it’s empty.”
Paul, Emma’s husband, followed, carrying a box of Grandma’s books. His glasses had slipped down his nose, his fair hair sticking up from the dust. He shook his head, his voice gentle but firm.
“Dan, hold on. Emma’s right—we should look for the key. This was Grandma’s wardrobe. There might be something important in there. She locked it for a reason.”
Olivia rolled her eyes, crossing her arms.
“Important? Paul, you’re as bad as Emma—always in the clouds. We need cash, not Grandma’s fairy tales!”
Emma stepped toward the wardrobe, fingers brushing the cold lock as if it might speak.
“Fairy tales? You turn everything into money, Liv! Grandma raised us here, baked us scones, and you’d sell her life at a car boot sale!”
The wardrobe, silent and unmoving, became their battleground, every scratch on the wood a reminder of the past they saw so differently.
The next day, clearing continued, but the air in the flat was thick as storm clouds. Olivia sorted dishes in the kitchen, stacking china plates for sale and tossing old pots into a bin bag marked “RUBBISH” in red marker. Emma sat on the living room floor, flipping through Grandma’s album of black-and-white photos, her eyes glistening.
“Liv, look,” she said, holding up a photo. “That’s us at the cottage, remember? Grandma feeding us honeycake while you braided my hair.”
Olivia glanced but turned away, tossing a spoon into the box with a clatter.
“Em, don’t start. We’ve loads to do, and you’re digging up the past again.”
Emma snapped the album shut, her voice sharpening.
“Our past, Liv! Or have you forgotten how Grandma made us shake hands after we fought over dolls?”
Olivia spun around, cheeks flushing.
“Made peace? And who sat with her in hospital while you were off painting watercolours? Me, Em! I took out loans for her medicine!”
Emma jumped up, bracelets jangling.
“And did I not help? I stayed up nights when you were stuck at your desk! But you don’t care—it’s always about money!”
Daniel walked in with a screwdriver, trying to mediate.
“Liv, Em, enough. Let’s open the wardrobe and settle this. If it’s junk, we sell it. If it’s keepsakes, we keep them.”
Paul, dusting an old lamp with a green shade, shook his head.
“Dan, this isn’t just furniture. It’s memory. Emma’s right—we should find the key. Grandma wouldn’t lock it without cause.”
Olivia scoffed, her voice icy.
“Memory? Paul, you’re as sentimental as Em. We’ve got five days before the new tenants move in, and you’re playing detective over a key!”
Emma turned back to the wardrobe, fingers tracing the lock again.
“I’ll find it, Liv. And prove it’s not junk.”
That evening, Olivia went to the bank to discuss her overdue loan. In the sterile office, reeking of paper and cheap coffee, the manager in a blue suit tapped his pen.
“Ms. Hart,” he said, flipping through her file. “You must make a payment by month’s end, or interest increases by ten percent.”
Olivia nodded, throat tight.
“I know. We’re selling Grandma’s flat. The money’s coming.”
Outside, she stopped under a streetlamp, breath fogging in the cold air. She remembered Grandma teaching her to knit on that old sofa, laughing at her lopsided scarf. *“Patience, Liv,”* she’d say. Now patience was thin, and the wardrobe stood like a wall between her and Emma.
Meanwhile, Emma searched Grandma’s bedroom. The room smelled of lavender and old wood, a velvet jewellery box on the dresser. Inside were buttons, threads, and yellowed letters—and beneath the lining, a tiny rusted key. Emma froze, heart hammering.
“Paul!” she shouted, dashing into the living room. “I found it!”
Paul, sorting tattered books, looked up.
“Seriously? Let’s try it! Call Liv—she should be here.”
Emma rang Olivia—no answer. So she slid the key into the lock and turned. Nothing. The lock didn’t budge. Emma cursed, tears welling.
“Why won’t it work?” she muttered, kicking the wardrobe. “Grandma, what did you hide?”
Paul squeezed her shoulder.
“Easy, Em. Maybe the lock’s stuck. Or it’s the wrong key. Let’s wait for Liv.”
The next morning, the sisters met at a nearby café for a break. The smell of fresh bread and cinnamon hung in the air as drizzle pattered outside. Olivia, sipping black coffee, looked exhausted, fingers crumpling a napkin.
“Em, I was at the bank,” she said quietly. “If we don’t sell, I’m sunk. The interest will bury me.”
Emma, nibbling a croissant, met her sister’s gaze.
“Liv, I get it. But that wardrobe… it matters. I found a key, but it didn’t fit. What if there’s something we’re meant to find?”
Olivia sighed, voice hardening.
“What we *need* is money, not riddles. You’ve always been the dreamer, and I’m left cleaning up.”
Emma set down her pastry, eyes flashing.
“Cleaning up? Who took Grandma flowers every Sunday while you were at work? Me, Liv! But you only see numbers!”
A waitress glanced over, unnoticed. The argument stalled when Paul called.
“Em, come back. Found another box—might be another key.”
Back at the flat, Paul held a small rusted tin. Inside was another key, slightly larger, engraved with a rose. Emma grabbed it, hands shaking.
“This is it,” she whispered. “I can feel it.”
Olivia, leaning in the doorway, scoffed.
“Feel it? Em, this isn’t a film. If this doesn’t work, we’re smashing it. Dan’s already got the crowbar.”
Daniel, nursing a beer on the sofa, nodded.
“She’s right. Time’s up. Estate agent’s coming tomorrow.”
Paul shook his head, glasses glinting.
“Wait. Let’s try. This matters to Emma. And to Grandma.”
Together, they approached the wardrobe. Emma inserted the new key; Paul jiggled the lock; Olivia, grudgingly, turned the handle. A click. The doors creaked open—revealing neatly folded dresses, a box of letters, an old locket, and a yellowed envelopeInside the envelope was a note from their grandmother, written in her looping script: «My darlings, the real treasure was never in the wardrobe, but in the love you’ve rediscovered for each other,» and as the sisters hugged, the wardrobe’s doors swung gently shut behind them, as if nodding in quiet approval.