Harold was the only one who ever went up there with a purpose. One rainy afternoon, restless and unable to bear the oppressive stillness of the house, I climbed the narrow attic ladder with a flashlight. The air was thick with dust, particles swirling like tiny ghosts in the beam of the light.
Cobwebs clung to the rafters, trembling gently as I passed. I began opening boxes of old photo albums, forgotten kitchenware, magazines Harold swore he’d read one day. As I pushed aside a stack of blankets tucked into the corner, I saw it.
It looked as though it belonged in another era, another life. I hesitated, my heart suddenly thudding in my chest. Why would Harold have hidden something like this?
Why had he never mentioned it, not once in fifty-two years? The suitcase felt heavier than it looked when I dragged it forward. Dust billowed as I knelt, coughing, and brushed off the lid.
My hands trembled as I clicked open the clasps. Inside was a collection of items that made my breath catch and my stomach twist with a strange mixture of dread and curiosity. At the top sat a bundle of photographs tied with a faded green ribbon.
I slid the ribbon loose and lifted the stack. What I saw made my vision blur. The man in the photos was unmistakably Harold, but he was young, no older than nineteen or twenty.
His hair was darker, his smile carefree in a way I had never seen in any of our albums. In many of the pictures, he was standing beside a woman I did not recognize. She was beautiful.
Dark waves of hair framed her delicate face, and her eyes seemed to sparkle even through the sepia-toned film. In shot after shot, she stood next to Harold, sometimes arm in arm, sometimes laughing, sometimes looking at him like he was the sun itself. My throat tightened painfully.Continue reading…
