Chapter 5 Letters in the Attic

It was the sound of the rain that drove her to the attic.

A soft drizzle had begun in the early hours, tapping gently against the tiled roof like a lullaby for the lonely. The day, which had promised sunshine, had instead draped itself in mist and melancholy. Adeline, restless and unable to read, wandered the halls of the house until she found herself standing before the narrow staircase that led upward.

The attic had always been a mystery. Her grandmother rarely spoke of it - and when she did, it was with a fond sigh, as if the room contained not just dust and old boxes, but memories too heavy to unpack.

Today, Adeline climbed the creaking stairs slowly, brushing aside cobwebs, her fingers trailing along the banister as if touching time itself.

The room smelled of cedar and forgotten things. Light filtered through a small circular window, casting a golden haze over trunks, baskets, and draped furniture. She sneezed once, then laughed at herself.

She wasn't sure what she was looking for - maybe a photograph, or an old journal. What she found instead was a wooden box, no bigger than a bread loaf, tucked beneath a faded quilt.

Inside: letters. Dozens of them. Bound in ribbon, the colour of dried roses.

She hesitated only a moment before untying the bow.

The handwriting was unmistakably her grandmother's - loopy and graceful, ink slightly faded but still clear. The letters were addressed to Samuel Nyarko, a name Adeline did not recognize.

The first one began simply:

> My dearest Samuel,

Today the lavender bloomed. I thought of you. I always do when the wind smells like something new, and when silence feels too large for one heart to carry alone...

Adeline's fingers trembled slightly. She turned the pages, her eyes devouring lines that spoke not of gossip or domestic life, but of longing - deep, poetic longing. Her grandmother had written about starlit walks and stolen kisses by the riverside, about war-time fears and the ache of distance. There were no replies in the box. Only her voice, carried over pages, as though she had written without hope of an answer, or without needing one.

By the fifth letter, it was clear: Samuel had been the love before the one she married.

> I chose James because he was kind and here. But you were the dream I had to fold away, like a dress too fine for everyday wear.

Adeline pressed the letter to her chest, breath caught somewhere between awe and grief. She had known her grandmother to be strong, dignified, wise. But these letters showed a younger version - vulnerable, daring, and wild in love.

She found herself weeping softly - not just for the woman who had passed, but for the dreams she had buried quietly to survive.

---

Later that evening, Adeline sat with a cup of tea by the fireplace, the rain still whispering against the windows. She had brought one of the letters down with her - the one with the line that refused to leave her mind.

> We do not always marry the loves that burn brightest. Sometimes we choose the love that lets us rest.

She thought of Nathaniel. Of the way he listened. Of how he never pushed, never pried, but was present - utterly and wholly - in each moment they shared.

The front gate creaked.

She stood, startled, wiping at her eyes. Through the window, she saw him - umbrella in one hand, a parcel in the other. He looked up and saw her silhouette. He smiled, just faintly.

She opened the door before he could knock.

"You'll catch a cold," she scolded, but her tone was soft.

"I thought you might like these," he said, handing her the parcel. "It's a book. About medicinal herbs. My wife annotated the margins. I think you'd appreciate her notes."

She accepted it carefully, reverently. "That's very kind."

"You looked... distant yesterday," he said. "I wasn't sure if I'd said something wrong."

Adeline met his gaze. "You didn't. I just... found some letters. My grandmother's. About a man she once loved but never married."

Nathaniel nodded slowly. "That must've been... unexpected."

"It made me think," she said, "about what we give up. What we settle for. And what we quietly hope for, even when we say we've stopped hoping."

He didn't speak. Instead, he reached out and gently tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear - a gesture so simple and intimate it stole the breath from her lungs.

"I think," he said, "your grandmother would've liked this rain."

Adeline smiled. "She would've said it made the flowers grow deeper roots."

They stood in the doorway a moment longer, the storm humming around them, the silence no longer heavy, but whole.

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