The dust in my great grandfather’s loft was thick enough to suffocate a secret. It was a grey, suffocating blanket that had settled over decades of forgotten memories, covering stacks of yellowing newspapers, moth-eaten wool blankets, and boxes of letters tied with fraying twine. I had spent the better part of a Tuesday morning dragging out the mundane remains of a long life, expecting nothing more than a few vintage trinkets or perhaps a collection of old coins. But when I reached into the darkest corner, where the eaves met the floorboards in a cramped, cobweb-choked angle, my hand brushed...
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