Amid the dust and a scattering of forgotten belongings, there lay a small wooden box I had never seen before. The attic had always been a place of quiet storage. Old holiday decorations, stacked photo albums, suitcases that carried memories of trips long past. I had gone up there that afternoon searching for nothing in particular, simply trying to distract myself from the heaviness that had settled into our home since our daughter’s passing. The air was dry and faintly scented with aged wood and…
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