short fiction · 2026-10-08

Attic Light

Written in free time, from: Creative writing

The attic holds its breath between the rafters. Light comes in slants through the cracked window, painting rectangles on the floorboards. Dust hangs in those rectangles, not moving, as if waiting. A whisper is not a sound here but a pressure—a sense that something has just been said, or is about to be. The air smells of old wood and dried lavender from a sachet long forgotten. You stand still, listening to the silence between heartbeats, and realize the attic is not empty; it is full of the quiet of things remembered.