The attic smelled like dust and forgotten things. It was a smell that settled in the air, thick and stale, hanging in the corners like a memory that refused to fade. Every step I took seemed to disturb it, sending up little clouds of dust that drifted lazily in the weak light coming from the small window at the far end of the room. It was strange how this room—this forgotten space—had such an unmistakable scent, like a part of the house that had been left to deteriorate, as if no one had dared to come back.

I pushed open the door and stepped inside cautiously, avoiding the creaky spots on the old wooden floor, as I always did. I had spent enough time up here when I was younger to know where not to step. The door closed softly behind me, the sound echoing louder than it should in the stillness of the room. For a moment, I just stood there, letting my eyes adjust to the dim light. It felt like the air was thicker up here, like it was soaked in years of memories—things my mom once stored in this place, things that no one had thought to touch since she passed away.

I hadn't been in the attic for months—not since Mom died. I hadn't had the courage to come up here before. The memories were too raw. The attic had always been one of her favorite places in the house—her quiet spot where she would sort through boxes of old photographs, forgotten letters, and treasures she couldn't bear to part with. Every time I'd visit her here, she'd be lost in some old relic of the past, a smile on her face as she found little things that made her laugh. Her laugh was gone now, replaced by a kind of silence that pressed in on me as I stood there. Even with Lila sometimes coming over to hang out, it felt like I was the only one left in this house.

I felt a shiver run through me as I took another step into the attic, the floorboards creaking beneath me. There was an eerie stillness to the room now, like the life it once held had been sucked out of it. All that was left were the things that no one bothered to throw away—old furniture, dusty photo albums, mismatched chairs, and knick-knacks that were once important to someone. But now? Now they were just relics of a life that no longer existed. The weight of everything that had been left behind pressed on my chest, heavy and suffocating.

I couldn't even pinpoint why I was here now. It wasn't like I was looking for anything specific. Maybe I was just trying to find something—a piece of Mom, a connection to the past, something that would make it feel like she hadn't completely disappeared. Or maybe it was because, for once, I wasn't running from the emptiness that filled the rest of the house. Up here, in the attic, everything was still. Frozen in time.

I let my gaze drift over the clutter. The attic was a mess. There were stacks of boxes in every corner, some of them open, others sealed shut with yellowing tape. Old trunks were piled on top of each other, their worn leather and rusted clasps telling stories of forgotten years. And there was the furniture—chairs draped in dusty sheets, tables with old, chipped legs, and lamps that once illuminated rooms but were now mere shadows of their former selves. It was all so… mundane, so ordinary. And yet, there was something unsettling about it. Something that made me hesitate with every step I took.

I felt a strange pull toward the far corner of the room, where the light barely reached. Something felt off about that spot—like it was hiding something, something I was meant to find. And just like that, I knew I had to go there. I didn't know why, but the thought hit me with a strange sense of urgency, like I was being drawn into a mystery I couldn't avoid.

I stepped carefully, avoiding the places I knew would creak under my weight, and made my way to the corner. That's when I saw it. A broken tile.

At first, it seemed like nothing more than an accident—just another piece of the floor that had given way to time and decay. But as I got closer, I noticed something strange about it. The tile was cracked and displaced, as though someone—or something—had moved it recently. It was a perfect, jagged line down the center, splitting it in two, with one half sitting crookedly beside the other. The floor around it was slightly raised, as if the weight of the tile had been pressing down on the wood for years. It was subtle, but there was something deliberate about it, something that didn't feel right.

I crouched down, my fingers brushing over the edges of the broken tile, careful not to disturb it too much. The roughness of it felt strange against my skin, as if the very act of touching it was somehow wrong. My heart beat faster, and I couldn't shake the feeling that this wasn't just an ordinary break. I had been up here a hundred times, but I had never noticed this tile before. And something about it called to me, like I had been here before, like I had seen it before. But that couldn't be right. The last time I came up here was when I was much younger. It was before everything changed. Before Mom died.

I leaned closer, my breath catching in my throat as I tried to steady my hands. Something was buried under the tile. I lifted it carefully, trying to avoid disturbing the dust too much. The tile came loose with a soft crack, revealing a small, leather-bound object hidden beneath it. At first, I thought it was just another forgotten relic of the past—some old trinket or a piece of memorabilia—but as I pulled it free, I realized it was something more.

It was a book.

A small, weathered leather book. It wasn't very large, its edges worn down by time, the cover cracked in places as though it had been left to collect dust for years. The book seemed oddly familiar to me, even though I knew I had never seen it before. My fingers hovered over it, hesitant to touch it. There was a strange feeling in my chest, a pull toward it that I couldn't explain.

For a moment, I just held it there, staring at the book in my hands. There was no title on the cover. No indication of what it was or what it contained. Just a plain, weathered cover that seemed to invite questions. The corners of the book were frayed, the edges of the leather faded. It felt heavier than it should, as though it was carrying something more than just its own weight. And as I held it, the air around me seemed to shift, growing thicker. My heartbeat quickened, and the room felt suddenly smaller.

I felt like I knew this book. It was like it had been waiting for me—like it had been calling to me. But why? Why was it here, hidden under the floor, buried away for so long?

I glanced around the attic again, my eyes scanning the clutter, but nothing else stood out. Just the same old forgotten things—boxes of memories, old furniture, and the remnants of a life I used to know. But this book—it was different. It was like it belonged here, like it had been waiting for me to find it, to open it.

But I didn't. I hesitated, my fingers still hovering over the book. There was something about it that made me pause, like I wasn't supposed to open it. Like it belonged to someone else. A part of me wondered if I should just leave it there, bury it back under the tile, and walk away. But the other part of me—the part that had been searching for something to hold onto, something to make sense of the mess of my life—couldn't let it go.

I tucked the book under my arm, feeling its weight press against me as I stood up. It was ridiculous, I knew. I was just a teenager stumbling upon an old book in an attic. But something about it—something about the way it felt in my hands—made me think I was holding onto something important. Something I shouldn't let go of.

The silence in the attic was suffocating now. I glanced around one last time, taking in the dust, the forgotten furniture, the stale air. The book felt like it belonged here—like it was a part of this place, a piece of the past that had been hidden away. But why? Why now? Why under the broken tile?

I didn't have an answer. Not yet.

I took a deep breath and turned to leave the attic, the book still tucked under my arm. But before I made it to the stairs, the question lingered in my mind, unbidden and unwelcome.

Why was this here—out of all places?

And for the first time since Mom died, the house didn't feel quite as empty.