01/03/2026
After saying goodbye to my grandma, I went back to her house to collect the last of her things. My husband was impatient, practically pushing me to sell the place.
"We need the money, not your memories," he said, barely hiding his irritation.
The air around the old porch still smelled like her — lavender soap, herbal tea, and something warm and familiar that made my throat tighten. The funeral had drained me; the gray sky felt as heavy as the silence in the house.
I sat on her bed — the same one where she had passed just three days earlier. The springs groaned softly under my weight, as if mourning too.
Paul — my husband — came in without knocking. His footsteps sounded out of place in this house, too loud, too sure.
"It's getting late, Mira," he said. "We should go."
But as I stepped out toward the gate, Mrs. Callahan, the neighbor, stopped me. She glanced around nervously, then whispered:
"If you only knew what your husband was doing here… while your grandmother was still alive."
She slipped a small, old-fashioned key into my hand. I suddenly remembered — it was the key to the attic.
"What do you mean, what my husband was doing? And how did you even get this key?" I asked.
"That's not for me to tell," Mrs. Callahan murmured. "Your grandmother gave it to me about a month before she passed. She said I should hand it to you personally."
I thanked her, took the key, and told Paul to drive home without me — that I'd call a cab later.
Then I went back inside, up the creaking stairs, and unlocked the attic door.⬇️
