The rain fell in heavy sheets that afternoon, blurring the world outside the old cottage windows. The house smelled faintly of cedar and lavender—the scents of her grandmother's life. Lena had spent many rainy days here before, but never had the hours stretched so unbearably long. She had exhausted the bookshelf, the puzzle drawers, and even the tin box of her grandmother's old photographs. Nothing could silence the gnawing restlessness inside her.
Her gaze drifted upward, to the narrow staircase tucked at the end of the hall. It led to the attic—a place she had been warned against stepping foot in for as long as she could remember. Her grandmother's rule had always been firm, spoken with a sharpness unusual for her gentle nature: "Never go into the attic, Lena."
But rules have a way of tempting rebellion, and boredom sharpens curiosity. Before she could talk herself out of it, Lena was tiptoeing down the hall. The wooden stairs creaked under her weight, dust fluttering into the air with each step. When she reached the top, she paused, half expecting her grandmother to appear behind her and scold her. But the house was silent, the storm muffling all else.
The attic door groaned as she pushed it open. A gust of stale air met her, thick with the musk of age and mothballs. The room was dim, lit only by the weak gray light filtering through a small window. Stacks of boxes loomed like quiet sentinels, draped in sheets, their corners heavy with cobwebs.
She wandered between the forgotten relics of her family's past—old trunks, yellowed quilts, broken furniture—until something red caught her eye. It peeked from beneath a pile of blankets, its color dulled but stubborn against the dust. Kneeling, she tugged at it and pulled free a ribbon, frayed at the edges yet still striking in its faded scarlet.
Tied to the ribbon was a small iron key.
It was heavier than it looked, its surface cool and rough in her palm. Something about it felt important, almost alive. Her heart quickened. What could it possibly unlock?