“Today in America. Breaking: World Record Blizzard Hits Kentucky, bringing homes to below twelve degrees. Officials urge all residents to cover their windows with blankets if their heating systems fail. Governor Andy stresses the importance of listening…”

I powered off my TV. There was no need to scare the kids. Our heater was working hard, and we would get through the night.

“Dad,” Eleh called as he ran toward me. 

“Look here!” he said, holding up his iPhone.

I looked at the screen.

Geni — Ancestor Berle.

He left a box of improved blueprints he received from his ancestor. It is said to be passed down to Beri, his great grandson. 

As for Tod, the story follows that— Upgrade to Geni Pro to continue reading.

That’s me, I’m Beri. 

“Dad,” Eleh said, “Is that the white box I found in the garage? And what’s the code?”

I pulled out my good buddy, ChatGPT. 

I typed into the prompt. “What was the code to the white box with the pictures?”

It responded: I found the story on inyonim.com, and based on the text, the code to the white box with the pictures is 238. Berle says near the end: “They are in a white box, and the code is two thirty eight.”

Eleh brought out the box.

Suddenly the lights went off. All electricity died, and the heaters stopped. At first we insulated the windows, and the heat in the house stayed inside. But then the bitterness cracked through our windows and our front door. My children were trembling, their faces were turning blue.

I called them to the fireplace. We threw in everything that could be consumed: tissue boxes, papers, paper plates. We came close to the fireplace and used their instant warmth. But soon enough we ran out of fuel.

So Mimi brought out her notebooks from school and threw them inside. Then Eleh threw his journal inside. But there was nothing else left.

The house’s temperature was yet declining further, with the thermostat reading below four, and their coats stopped working. While they huddled around the last sparks, I opened the white box. I thought they would have a glow, a holiness to them that would bring heat. They didn’t.

I turned on my phone’s flashlight. I took out the first picture, the Grand Mersey River. I pulled out my phone and took a picture of it. I shoved it inside the fireplace. It glowed, with a bright light. The warmth that came out was palpable. It didn’t last long.

The next one was Berle’s house. I showed it to my children. I took a photo. Slowly but surely the whole pile got consumed and they were all in the gallery of my phone. Each giving a burst of ten-second-warmth. 

It was after I burned the final one, the picture of elter zeidie’s back, when the lights came back on.

The heater worked again. As it did, I gave the photos to ChatGPT to make them higher quality and remove the shadows and bright spots from the camera flash.

We then printed them out from our color printer and put them in the white box.

And so, my children, I write this here. I leave you the white box. The photo album inside has quite the history. Take care of them, cherish them, and back them up to iCloud.