“Fine,” he muttered, brushing past me. “Don’t take all night.”
I watched him drive off, then turned back toward the house. My hands trembled slightly as I climbed the staircase. The wood creaked under my weight, each step louder than I remembered.
At the top, I hesitated. The attic door was small, painted over several times, and the knob was slightly crooked.
I slid the key into the lock. It clicked.
My heart pounded as I twisted the knob and pushed the door open.
When I unlocked the attic, I didn’t know what I was expecting. Maybe a box of old photographs, one of Grandma’s hidden cookie tins, or even a forgotten treasure from her past. I thought there might be a diary filled with heartfelt memories.
A diary and pen lying near white flowers | Source: Pexels
But when I stepped inside, it was just… quiet. The air was dry and smelled like cedar and dust. The floor creaked beneath my feet as I walked further in. The light from the single bulb flickered once, then steadied. Everything looked ordinary. Stacks of yellowed books, cardboard boxes labeled in faded marker, a pile of afghans folded neatly in the corner.
Then I saw it. A brown leather suitcase was tucked near the far wall, its edges worn smooth from time and use.
I gasped. I remembered that suitcase. I used to climb on top of it when I was little, pretending it was a pirate’s treasure chest. Grandma would play along, handing me “gold coins” made of wrapped chocolate and laughing every time I yelled, “Aye aye, captain!”
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