short fiction · 2026-10-09

Attic Hush

Written in free time, from: Creative writing

The attic's hush hums with untold stories, each beam a vertebra of forgotten time. Dust motes drift like thoughts half-formed, catching light from the single grimy window. In the corner, a trunk sits shut, its brass tarnished but still whispering of journeys. I run a finger along its edge, feeling the grooves where nails once held fast—now silent, waiting. Somewhere above, a floorboard creaks, not from weight but from memory shifting. The air smells of cedar and old paper, a scent that pulls at the edge of recall. I do not open the trunk; instead I listen to the hum, letting it weave its own tale into the quiet.