The rain tapped steadily against the attic window, a soft rhythm that made Amara Kesselly pause at the threshold. Dust and cedar filled the air, laced with something faintly sweet old paper, maybe. She hadn't been here since childhood, yet the attic seemed frozen in time, waiting for her return.
The single bulb overhead flickered as she pulled the cord, throwing long shadows across the clutter. Gray sunlight fought its way through the storm outside, spilling across the wooden floorboards and catching dust motes that swirled like restless spirits. Boxes leaned against the walls, their labels faded: Christmas 1992, School Papers, Kitchen Things. Each one whispered of forgotten lives.
Amara swallowed hard. She shouldn't have come up here. Not tonight. Not when the house felt too empty, its silence pressing against her ribs like a weight. It had been two weeks since the funeral, and yet every corner still smelled faintly of her grandmother lavender oil, flour, the faint musk of old books. Tonight, with the storm pounding outside, grief had pulled her to the attic like a tide she couldn't resist.
She drifted past the boxes, her fingers brushing cardboard softened with age. The attic was crowded with memory, and every step pressed her deeper into its hold. A rocking chair sat folded in the corner, the same one her grandmother had used to lull her to sleep as a child. A cracked porcelain doll peered at her from a trunk, one eye missing.
But it wasn't any of those things that made her heart lurch.
It was the small wooden chest, half-hidden beneath a faded quilt.
The brass latch was tarnished, its edges worn smooth by years of handling. Scratches marred the lid, as if someone had tried to pry it open in desperation. A sharp pull tugged at Amara's chest, urging her closer. She knelt, brushed the quilt aside, and laid a trembling hand on the wood.
Her pulse quickened.
Why did it feel as though the box had been waiting for her?
The latch creaked as she lifted it.
Inside lay two dozen letters, bundled in careful stacks, each tied with a ribbon that had long since faded to gray. The envelopes were yellowed, corners curling like dry leaves. And yet one the last one, tucked neatly at the bottom looked impossibly new. White. Crisp. Untouched.
Amara froze.
The date stamped across its face hadn't arrived yet.
Her grandmother's elegant handwriting scrolled across the envelopes curved loops and swirls that had grown shakier with time. Amara's throat tightened as her fingers hovered above the pristine letter. A chill prickled her skin.
Why would her grandmother write letters for decades and never send them?
And how could one come from the future?
A noise behind her made her flinch.
The rafters groaned as the storm rattled the roof, but for a moment Amara was certain she had heard something else something softer. A footstep? She spun around, her breath caught in her chest.
The attic was empty.
She let out a shaky laugh, though it sounded hollow in the stillness.
Her knees sank into the dusty floorboards as she pulled out the top letter. The paper was thin, fragile, scented faintly with lavender. She ran her thumb across the ink, tracing the familiar curves of her grandmother's hand. For a heartbeat, it felt as though her grandmother were here again, whispering stories into the silence.
A surge of memory rose unbidden: afternoons spent curled in this very attic, listening to tales of distant places, tragic loves, and promises never kept. At the time, they had seemed like fairy tales. But what if they hadn't been stories at all?
The thought sent a shiver racing down her spine.
Lightning flashed through the small window, briefly illuminating the attic. The letters gleamed pale against the shadows, like bones unearthed from the earth.
Amara's hands trembled as she held the first envelope. She should stop. She knew it in her gut. Some things weren't meant to be unearthed.
But she couldn't.
Her grandmother had left these words for her for this moment. And whatever secrets were inside, they were hers to uncover.
With a slow, steady breath, Amara sat cross legged on the attic floor. She unfolded the first letter, her heart pounding as the paper crackled open. The storm outside roared, but she hardly noticed.
Because the words on the page carried a truth that would unravel everything she thought she knew.
And the letter waiting at the bottom of the stack the one written in the future felt as though it were calling her name.