The attic smelled of dust and forgotten things. I’d never been up here before, not really. Mom’s voice echoed in my head—”You’ll find what you need when you’re ready.” But I wasn’t ready. Not for this. The boards groaned beneath my boots as I stepped over piles of yellowed newspapers and rusted tin boxes. A single bulb flickered overhead, casting jagged shadows across the walls. That’s when I saw it: a small wooden chest tucked beneath the eaves, its edges worn smooth by time. I knelt, fingers brushing the faded blue paint. It was locked, but the key hung from a hook near the door—dusty, but still there. I turned it with a soft click. Inside lay a stack of letters, their envelopes brittle with age. The top one bore my grandmother’s name, her handwriting looping like ivy. I opened it, and the scent of lavender and something sharper—sandalwood, maybe—rose to meet me. The letter was dated June 17, 1983. “To the one who finds this,” it began. “If you’re reading this, I’m gone. But the light isn’t.” My throat tightened. The words spilled out in a rush: a secret about the lighthouse on the cliffs, a promise kept in silence, a love that outlived the man who’d built it. I didn’t realize I’d been holding my breath until the air tasted stale. Outside, the wind howled against the shingles, and for a moment, I swore I heard footsteps above me. “You shouldn’t be here,” a voice said. I spun around. No one was there. Just the creak of the floorboards and the hum of the bulb. I clutched the letters to my chest. Whatever this was, it wasn’t over. Not yet.
