We found the attic on a quiet afternoon, when curiosity led us up the creaky stairs with a flashlight and dust-covered hope. Inside, we discovered boxes of forgotten stories old letters, photographs, remnants of lives once lived under this same roof.
You opened a letter and began reading aloud. It was a love letter, inked in fading blue, from a woman to her husband decades ago. Her words felt hauntingly familiar raw, poetic, real. We read them one by one, sitting side by side in the fading light.
Then you looked at me. "Let's write our own," you said.
So we did. On parchment we found inside a drawer, we wrote our first letter not just to each other, but to time itself. Something for the future to find. A whisper tucked into the pages of history.
Before we left, you placed our letter gently in a wooden box and smiled. "Now, we live here in more ways than one."
And we descended the stairs, carrying a little more love, a little more forever.