It isn’t easy or immediate, but with some struggle and some aid, he’s able to pull the chest out, at least enough to open it.

“It’s going to be full of old shoe leather,” he says, rueful, rubbing his hand where it had grasped the sandy edge of the box. But at least it doesn’t have the feel of the mirrors, and he doesn’t have any urge to make her wish on it. That is a consolation. It’s nothing but a big unwieldy box.