IT IS AN ORDINARY cardboard box. Sturdy, square, the usual industrial brown. Sealed along the bottom flaps with packing tape, gone yellow and brittle, the top of the box bleached a lighter shade of brown, covered with dust and cobwebs and a scattering of dead flies. Signs of water damage at one corner from the year the attic roof leaked. The top flaps are not sealed, but someone (who?) has placed a fist-sized rock there to weight down the flaps. The sort of box that might have held a glass light fixture wrapped in paper or a collection of long-forgotten Christmas ornaments. Rain natters companionably against the roof. Two half-moon windows, one at either end of the attic, permit a soft gray light. The smell of mothballs has begun to be overpowering. But the half-moon windows were long ago nailed shut, after squirrels got into the attic.