The door swung open with a groan, releasing air that smelled of dust and something faintly medicinal, like a room preserved too long. Light filtered in from a small window, catching the particles that hung suspended in the air. Boxes lined the eaves in precise stacks, the kind of careful order her father had always kept.
Miriam stayed at the threshold, her hand still on the knob. The attic looked harmless enough, just cardboard, trunks, the clutter of a life, but her chest tightened as though she were trespassing. She couldn’t help recalling how fiercely her father had guarded this space. The way his voice sharpened when anyone so much as brushed against the door.