A Storytelling Sunday Mystery
She didn’t even know Aunt Lillith had a cabinet like this.
The movers brought it last—tall and carved, with worn brass handles and floral trim that reminded her of old picture frames. Twelve compartments, each perfectly square, each containing something odd and curated: a bottle labeled Elixir, a ram’s skull smaller than it should be, a butterfly pinned behind glass, a golden key with no tag, a locket that didn’t open.
The note that came with it was brief:
“Leave it by a window. Light the candle once.
If anything moves, let it.”
No signature. Just that delicate handwriting her family always used when things were meant to be taken seriously but not explained.
She set it in her study, as instructed, by the large window that caught the amber light just before the sun dipped behind the trees. The candle was included in the box, wrapped in a linen cloth that smelled faintly of lavender and smoke. She didn’t question it. Not then.
It was still summer, technically. But the kind of summer that tilts—where shadows stretch longer and the breeze starts whispering secrets. She lit the candle on the first evening without much thought, just as the golden hour hit the hardwood floor.
And that’s when she noticed the first change.
The butterfly had been in the top middle cubby—purple wings spread, symmetrical and perfect. Now it was gone. Not out of place, not fallen. Gone.
In its spot: a slip of paper. Thin. Folded once.
“August 10 — I woke up remembering the woods,
but I’ve never been there.”
She checked every drawer. The butterfly hadn’t moved to another section. The cabinet looked undisturbed otherwise. Still, something in her ribs settled into a slow ache, like something had been nudged open, just slightly.
She didn’t light the candle the next night.
But on the third evening, curiosity won. She lit it again, and this time the locket opened—its clasp undone. Inside: a pressed flower she didn’t recognize, delicate and deep red, with a curl at the edge like it had once been burned.
“August 13 — She gave me this when we made the pact.
She said to hide it if I ever forgot.”
She wasn’t sure who she was. Or what the pact might have been. But something about the flower—its color, its impossible placement—made her sit down and stay quiet for a very long time.
Over the next week, the changes continued.
Sometimes the bottles shifted. Sometimes a skull turned to face another direction. On August 15, the key disappeared. On August 16, a ring appeared in its place—carved from dark wood, warm to the touch, and too small for her hand.
She began to keep a notebook. Not a journal, exactly. More like a record. A puzzle tracker. She mapped each compartment like a grid and began sketching what she found, annotating the oddities like she was cataloging something long-forgotten and faintly sacred.
“August 19 — The candle crackled tonight. Smelled like something old. Like thunder and rosemary. I remembered a story that’s not mine. But it felt like it was.”
Then one morning, she noticed something that chilled her in a way nothing else had:
The cabinet wasn’t dusty anymore.
Not like it had been cleaned. Like it was being used.
Like someone had been touching the bottles. Adjusting the drawer. Sliding things just slightly.
Still, it never felt threatening. Just old. Remembered. Like it was helping her find something she’d misplaced in the space between sleep and wake.
The puzzle she turned this into became a comfort. So did the candle. The scent—now unmistakably late summer turning to fall—lingered in the room longer with each burn: hints of dried herbs, warm paper, something metallic like old keys or memory itself.
She stopped expecting answers. She started asking different questions.
Why did Aunt Lillith leave this to her?
Who kept writing the notes—entries that now lined her notebook like journal fragments from a life not entirely hers?
And then, one night, on August 28, the entire bottom row changed.
Gone were the books and bones. In their place: a mirror, a second key, and a folded letter.
This time, the note was signed.
“Lillith.
I remember now.
It only wakes in August. Use the second key when the light turns gold.
Don’t try to solve it. Let it show you.”
The light in the window is golden now.
She doesn’t know what the second key opens. Not yet. But the candle’s still burning, and the cabinet hums with a quiet presence, like it’s exhaling. Like it’s watching gently as summer ends again.
Inspired by the story of The Cabinet of August, our new Puzzle features this curious collection—each square a symbol, a mystery, a moment remembered.
Pair it with our Memory Cabinet Candle, made with notes of dried flowers, smoky vanilla, and heirloom wood.
➡️ Velvet Secret Candle
➡️ Mysterious Gothic Jigsaw Puzzle
Warmly,
The Cozy Corner by Durazza
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