Late March passed with little change in our routine. Yet, the memory of the attic lingered, a quiet storm in my mind.
We documented the mechanism, careful not to disturb its delicate balance. The faint carvings, strange markings—they all told a story I couldn’t yet understand.
I tried reaching out to a few experts online, hoping for some insight. Replies trickled in, but they were vague, non-committal.
My grandfather seemed unbothered by the lack of answers, but I felt restless.
“Did you hear back from anyone?” he asked one evening, breaking the silence that had settled over dinner.
“Not really,” I admitted, pushing my food around my plate.
He nodded, as if expecting that. “Things like this take time,” he said, his voice steady.
April arrived with a hint of warmth, yet my thoughts remained clouded by the attic’s secret.
My grandfather mentioned seeing strange visitors passing by the house, their eyes lingering a little too long.
“Probably nothing,” he shrugged, but I could sense the unease in his voice.
