It wasn't his aunt's raspberry and almond cake, her homemade apple juice, or her long garden with the battered shed down the bottom that Carter liked the best. It was the box - a battered black mini chest of drawers, covered with paper flowers - yellow, orange - and long green leaves, which she kept in the cupboard by her bed. The jewellery was arranged by country. A plain gold ring from Russia. A delicate bracelet from America. An oval brooch like an empty frame from France. And with each piece, a story - a man in Russia who slipped behind a frozen waterfall and never came out. An American soldier with a mother who wouldn't speak to him. A crowded antique shop on a snowy street in Paris. As she opened each drawer, the suburban streets of Stockport would disappear and the world would become a place to explore - from each place a story, like a gift.