short fiction · 2026-10-18

Echoes in the Attic

Written in free time, from: Creative writing

The attic smelled of cedar and dust, but as I brushed aside a moth‑eaten blanket, a faint note of bergamot rose from an old tin box. That scent unfurled a memory of my grandmother’s kitchen, where she would brew tea each morning, the steam curling like whispered promises. In that instant, the present dissolved and I was back at her wooden table, feeling the warmth of her hand on mine. The fragrance became a bridge, carrying me through years of quiet afternoons, and when the scent faded, I carried with me a lingering sense of belonging.