The attic air hung thick with dust motes dancing in the lone shaft of sunlight. Elara coughed, waving a hand in front of her face, but the gesture was half-hearted. She was lost, not in the physical clutter of forgotten belongings, but in the labyrinth of her own mind. She’d come here searching for a specific box, a relic of her grandmother, but the attic, with its musty scent of time and forgotten things, had become a portal to her past.
It started with the faded photograph tucked inside a chipped porcelain doll. A little girl with pigtails and a gap-toothed grin, perched on a swing set. Elara. A wave of warmth washed over her, a memory so vivid she could almost feel the rough texture of the swing’s chain in her hands. Laughter echoed in her ears –...