Like the end of a long, ugly conversation. She didn’t return to the attic right away. She sat in the kitchen with a cup of tea gone cold and stared at the box she’d brought down. Small, plain, and tied with thin twine. It could’ve held anything: old letters, dead bugs, a prank.
Something in her half-expected confetti to fly out when she opened it, her uncle’s final joke. But when she undid the string and lifted the lid, there was no punchline. Just a stack of envelopes. Each marked in the same careful handwriting: “For Elise – Age 10” “For Elise – Age 17” “For Elise – When You Feel Trapped” “For Elise – After I’m Gone” Her breath caught.