It hadn’t been long since she had been here, had it? The walkway to the attic still smelled like damp mildew and a remnant of lavender. Lavender, a smell that took her back to when they first met.That night — the night she brought their daughter into the world — had become a blur, but she remembered the lavender. And those round eyes. Coming back to her senses, she reached for the attic drawer. It always seemed like it would break just by looking at it, but surprisingly has held together over the years, even before they moved into the house. Though it had been some time since anyone had lived here. The attic stairs squeaked, and a puff of dust swirled out as her dry hands pulled down to unfold the ladder. They had promised they’d never buy a house. But when they saw this one, impulse overruled reason — and they bought it. Though the regret settled in fast for her, her husband and child seemed to enjoy the place just fine. Content was a state that she longed to find. It was always a work in progress, truly a battle that will never end.
Each step she took now on the extended ladder made her world wobble. With each step, she paused, trying to ground herself in reassurance that the ladder wouldn’t collapse underneath her. Just like the string, the ladder may look like it will fall apart, but it is surprisingly sturdy. Her head finally popped through the horizon that separated the silent third floor from the creaky attic. From the attic’s dim light, the rocking chair sat just where she remembered it, facing the small window. Its curved arms seemed to wait for her, the same way it had during sleepless nights long ago. She hesitated at the opening, her glasses catching the faint light as she debated whether to climb the rest of the way up. For a moment, she almost laughed at herself — standing halfway in, as if the chair were silently judging her for taking so long. Then she pulled herself fully inside, her hand searching the dusty floor for balance.
After what seemed like forever, two feet stand firm on the floor of the attic. Time seemed to pause while she took in the area she now occupied. Looking at the faded color, she wondered why they ever thought wallpaper was a good idea up here. Some areas looked to be a little wet or moldy. Small crayon and marker doodles still hold space in areas of this room. She always thought it was funny how the world was a canvas to children, and when she thought of it like that, how could she ever bring herself to remove the art? The old crib, half taken down, had some books and clothing on top, the small rocker filled with different toys she used to play with. No tears came, but she drew in her cheeks and bit the inside of them, fighting the sting behind her eyes. Her right foot shuffled toward the rocking chair. She reached one of her hands out to the armrest. Soft, long fingers gently brushed the old, stained wood. Her eyes looked at it as if it would break if any weight were brought to rock it. Right next to the rocking chair was a box labeled, “Letters to my love”. What she was expecting to find were letters she wrote at the start of her pregnancy to the few months after. She even wrote some letters for her baby to read one day in the future. The woman sat down on her knees in front of the box and pulled it into her lap. It was surprisingly lightweight compared to the last time she held it. Confused by that little detail, she rushed to open the lid. Crunched eyebrows and lower lip now bitten, her shoulders hunched forward toward the only thing in the box. One single envelope. Addressed to herself. But what was really confusing her wasn't where the other letters were, but why the date was written ten years from now, the date of today.
“ I haven’t written anything for a while. That’s so weird.” The woman muttered to herself while bringing the envelope closer to her face for inspection. Although she did not always have the best handwriting, she really did think this was one of her letters. She opened it, forgetting that she was originally looking for a box filled with memories. The envelope didn’t feel old, and the ink looked fresh. The woman's eyebrows scrunched even more when she read that it was in fact a letter to herself. Inside is a single page with five short sentences, each one more unsettling than the last.
“The place you need to look is at Anna Strandvagen 4B Lgh 1305 555 34 Jukkasjarvi, Sweden.
It is an apartment complex that will have a new ID, phone, keys, and a few numbers that can get you what you need when you get there. You will need to meet a man named Bjorn, who used to work with our husband before we married him. Don’t tell Mark…”
Her hands trembled before she even reached the third line. She read it again, slower this time,
until her eyes caught on the final sentence.
“She is still alive.”
-E