The Wooden Box
an excerpt

Anne Walters opened the heavy grate to brownstone building. The mailman had, once again, left her mail sitting on the bottom step of the entrance, instead of in the mailbox. At least the mail was still there, she though wryly.
Grabbing the packages and envelopes she ran up the thirty-two steps to her apartment. Her copper key was a point of pride to her. Ancient, curlicued and heavy, it was the main reason she stayed in her current place. It definitely wasn't due to the lack of elevator and leaky water heating pipes. She turned the door knob and headed straight to her desk. Dropping the plastic tote the mailman had left for her on top of a pile of papers, she sorted through the mail. Bills, bills, bills, a returned manuscript, more bills and a credit card offer were the highlights of the day. But stuck to the bottom of the bin was a large brown envelope. The postmark held no clues about what the envelope contained, other than that it was from Kentucky. The return address told her it was a legal clerk's office that had sent it. Did agents use lawyers to reject people now?
She rested her hip against the edge of her desk and turned the envelope over. She didn't know anyone in Kentucky. There weren't any Kentucky publishing houses that she'd sent things to recently. Maybe someone read one of her magazine articles and wanted to give her a bigger shot.
Anne, opened the letter from the legal office in Kentucky. Hoping it was an article offer, she tore the paper envelope apart. A single piece of paper fell out onto her already cluttered desk. Folded neatly in three, the letter had only three paragraphs. The first one explained their relationship, the second held the news, and the third was an apology and a promise for another letter to come. Anne sat down hard in her wooden chair. The letter was clutched in her hand when the tears started.
Her father was dead.
He was only sixty-four! “How is that even possible!” She asked out loud, surprised by how choked up her voice sounded in the still apartment.
Time seemed to come to a stand still. The only parent she'd ever known was dead. The letter that told her this was cold, precise and offered no explanation as to how he'd died. Going to Kentucky wasn't an option as her bank account was as empty as her chest. Her hear felt wrenched from her body.
“Please,” Anne whispered to the letter, “please please please be a joke. A sick practical joke.” She put her head down in her hands, and wept for the man who had so recently been Anthony Walters.