THE ATTIC DOOR
written and illustrated by Elaine Troisi
AI generated the photo
“Whoa there, young lady. Can’t we enjoy a nice breakfast together?” Becky watched her daughter wolf down three syrupy pancakes. “What’s your rush? It’s a snow day.”
“Maybe I’ll build a snowman today if Sammy is allowed over,” Lizzie replied. “Are you staying home today, too, Mom?”
“I wish I could, sweetie. But I’m on call, so when the hospital summons me, I’ll be off.” She paused, watching the snow fall harder now. “The roads are already slippery. That means accidents. Accidents are my middle name.”
“Yeah, yeah, Mom. I know.” Lizzie didn’t mean to sound sarcastic. She stepped in and wrapped her arms around her mother. “And you’re the only neurosurgeon!” She squeezed a little tighter than usual.
Becky held her for a moment longer than necessary before gently pulling away. “While that lovely hug is much appreciated, it does not excuse you from your chores.”
“Aww, Mom!”
“Dishes,” she reminded. “Dried and put away.”
When she was finished, Lizzie turned back into the room. “I think I’ll play in the attic this morning,” she said, trying to sound casual as she glanced at her mother.
Becky’s hand stilled on her coffee cup. “The attic?” she asked, too quickly.
Lizzie shrugged. “Yeah. Why not?”
Becky forced a small breath and nodded. “Just… don’t stay too long.”
“I won’t.”
But Becky was still watching her as she left the room.
Lizzie took the stairs two and three at a time, her mother’s voice following faintly behind her. “Please, honey, come back soon.” The last words faded into something about homework.
“Yuck,” Lizzie thought.
She reached above the doorframe, her fingers searching until they closed around the key. It was a large, tarnished brass skeleton key, colder than she expected. Her mother loved it, calling it the last vestige of a dying era.
“Perhaps it’s the last of its kind,” she had once said.
Lizzie had laughed.
“Hey, Mom, it’s just cool.”
The lock resisted before giving way with a familiar click. The door creaked open, stiff and uneasy, just as it always did. Lizzie paused for a moment on the threshold, a fleeting sense passing through her that she had forgotten something important. Then it was gone.
The attic stretched wide before her, filled with the collections of time—of centuries, really. The things she had already experienced sat in a growing pile in one corner, as if waiting to be remembered. The light here was different, dimmer and colder, filtering in through the window.
“It’s sleeting hard,” she whispered. “Please be careful out there, Mom.”
Her voice sounded smaller than she expected.
She moved through the room slowly at first, then with more purpose, opening boxes and shifting things as she went. She never knew exactly what she was looking for, only that something always seemed just out of reach.
After a while—minutes or perhaps longer—she heard the sound of her mother’s phone, the ringtone the sharp wail of an ambulance siren. The ER. It pulled her attention back.
Lizzie ran to the stairwell. “You leaving, Mom?” she called.
A door slammed below, followed by the low rumble of the Jeep. She hurried to the window and caught a brief flash of red light as it disappeared into the storm.
When she turned back, the house felt different. Quieter.
Too quiet.
That was when she noticed the small chest. She was certain it had not been there before. She dragged it closer to the rocking chair by the window, where a pale shaft of light now cut through the gray.
The lid lifted slowly on stiff hinges. Inside lay a single high-top shoe with hooks. Lizzie frowned. “Why would someone save just one shoe?” The thought lingered only a moment before she set it aside.
Next came a metal tool shaped like a curling iron, then other objects, each as mismatched as the last. Nothing seemed to belong together. Nothing seemed to belong to her.
At the bottom lay a cracked leather-bound journal.
She hesitated before touching it, a sudden certainty settling over her that this was what she had been searching for all along. Her mother would have told her to leave it alone. She knew that. Still, she reached for it.
“This is it,” she whispered. “I see that now.”
She lifted the journal and closed the chest, placing the book carefully on top. Though the room was warm, her fingers had grown cold. She rested her hand on the cover.
Etched in gold was the name Ruby.
She opened it.
A daisy filled the first page, its petals marked with looping words: he loves me, he loves me not, repeated again and again until only one petal remained.
He loves me.
Lizzie felt something shift inside her, a quiet settling she could not explain.
She turned the page. It felt heavy.
The words blurred at first, then came into focus.
“I cannot exist without you—I am forgetful of everything but seeing you again… Love is my religion—I could die for that—I could die for you.”
It was signed William.
A tightness formed in her chest as she turned another page and found a wedding invitation, then another page with a pressed rose, its edges yellowed and curling with age. She lifted the journal closer, almost expecting the faintest trace of its former scent.
Instead, she felt only the weight of it—the years it carried.
The journal slipped from her hands and landed softly against the chest. Dust motes rose in a slow spiral toward the rafters, catching the late afternoon light. The particles shimmered as they danced, and she watched them, momentarily lost.
“Like age,” she murmured. “Never lose your sparkle, Lizzie.”
The words felt distant, as though spoken by someone else.
She blinked, and the room seemed to dim. Or perhaps it was only her vision. She sank into the rocking chair beneath the window. A shawl lay draped across its arm, and without thinking, she pulled it around her shoulders. She was so cold and so tired.
The light faded slowly. The room grew still.
She sat there, waiting, though she was no longer sure for what.
By the time Becky returned home, darkness had settled both outside and within the house. And there was no snowman in the yard to welcome her home. “Oh, no, not again,” she whispered.
“Lizzie?” she called.
There was no answer.
“Lizzie!”
Her chest tightened as she hurried upstairs, catching herself on the railing as she climbed. The attic door stood open. She reached in and flipped on the light.
Lizzie sat in the old rocker beneath the window, wrapped in the shawl, her body slumped forward.
The journal rested in her lap.
A strand of long white hair lay across it.
Then another.
“Lizzie—”
Becky’s scream tore through the stillness.
She rushed forward, gathering her daughter in her arms. Lizzie felt too light, too still. Becky carried her downstairs, her breath breaking with each step, and laid her gently in bed. She pulled the covers around her and sat beside her, gripping her hand.
“You’ll be back,” she whispered, her voice unsteady. “Come back right now, you hear me, Lizzie.”
Her thumb moved slowly over her daughter’s fingers as she waited.
Tears slipped down her cheeks.
“You always have… every other time…”