𝙡𝙚𝙩𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙨 𝙛𝙧𝙤𝙢 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙨𝙠𝙮 | ᴋᴜʀᴀᴘɪᴋᴀ ᴋᴜʀᴛᴀ

𝙿𝚛𝚘𝚕𝚘𝚐𝚞𝚎

I visited my grandmother today. Well, she isn't really my biological grandmother, but I call her 'grand-mommy' because she was always there for me like a real grandmother would be. Whenever I do come, there's always a set of orange juice and strawberry-flavored pancakes ready on the table.

I met her when me and my parents were moving into this town. Her house seemed like the oldest in the street, but it was painted with the brightest, happy-looking colors that it made the other houses look dull and boring. I was taken by how neat and beautiful her front yard looked like. From afar, you could distinguish the well-trimmed grasses and the blossoming flowers that stood tall amidst the tiny pots.

After we finished unpacking and arranging our things in our new home, we heard our doorbell ring. There she was... My grand-mommy, carrying her staple apple pie, and welcoming us into the neighborhood. She was just as lovely as her mini garden, or rather, lovelier than that. Her eye smile seemed to tell a history of laughs and tears. She smelled like warm vanilla. I found myself slightly sniffing her out.

She was a cheery person. She never made anyone feel like they don't belong. She made people feel less lonely. The neighbors would come peek at her in the morning and try to catch her attention just to say their greetings. She would beam at them and give her usual jolly reply. It would probably be too much to say, but having her in our neighborhood was a delight, and I bet all of my neighbors would agree to that, too.

I have always wondered why she was living in solitude. When I first visited her house, she only had pictures of her when she was young, and of her parents, but she never had pictures of a lover, a husband, or a child. I felt like asking her about it, but something tells me it might not be the right time for it.

Today, I came because she asked for help. She wanted to clear her attic out. Her reason was she has not cleaned the room for years. I feel like attics and basements are always the forgotten areas of a house. Why would they want to build a room they plan on neglecting later on in the first place? Adults are weird.

I was rummaging through the boxes piled on top of each other. Some boxes were filled with vinyl disc records, old clothes, books, empty art canvases, and many more. I went to the east section and found even more boxes that looked heavier than the ones I've pulled.

"These are a lot," I sigh a little exasperatedly. I didn't like doing strenuous stuff. They stress me out, but my grand-mommy's an exception for this... I guess.

I have to pull out the first box on the top. It looked like it was about to fall, and if that happened, things would get messier than a tangled spider web. Speaking of spiders and spider webs, the attic has definitely become a home for them. Ugh.

I looked for a chair to stand on and found one sitting idly by the door. I dragged it across the room, the wooden floor making louder creaking noises as I walked. I placed it before me and the stack of boxes.

"Okay, this is it," I exhaled and stood on top of the chair. I grabbed the top box and lifted it up a little bit. Surprisingly, it felt a little lighter than I thought it would be. Then, I lifted it off the air. I lifted a little too much, causing me to lose balance.

"Woah-wo-ah-"

God, I am so stupid! Why didn't I ever notice I stepped on my dress, too? I lifted the box higher than I was supposed to do. 

"Ow... My ankle hurts a little. I hope I didn't break it," I said while caressing my swollen ankle. I really pray to God I didn't break it, or I'll get a beating from my mom for being so careless. 

While worrying about my ankle, I remembered I dropped the box and looked up. The box was lying down open. It's top panel was teared down. There were various... letters? They were scattered everywhere.

Letters? No wonder why the box felt lighter than most of the boxes in the attic. 

Why were they isolated in one box?

I stood up, feeling the pain from my swollen ankle travel through my veins. I winced at the throbbing ache, but I had to ignore it. I have to see what those letters are about, whose letters are those, and who were they from.

I picked up the nearest envelope to me. It had black marks on them. Probably from dirt, or the lead from the pencil?

I opened it's wrinkly skin and read the first words that came to view.

"My dear..."