When I was kid my family fell on hard times: Dad died, we cried, & moved back to Grandma's house. Aside from the crushing loss, her ancient home & self brought much comfort. The summer had just begun & was spent following her around, doing the chores she'd always been saddled with, learning the tools of her trade. Mom was inconsolable & my siblings too old to help with care & attention; so I was her tiny maid.
Nan's home was more than 100 years old! It had a dozen bedrooms, an attic, basement, & lil' nooks & crannies out the ass. Keeping the place spotless was a herculean effort for the old bird & me; and I couldn't help but wonder what the point was, considering we only used a third of the rooms anyways? But assiduously assist I did, as the presence of Nan filled the gaping hole Dad had left.
As Autumn rolled in & mastery of my new artform solidified I began to know the place like the back of my hand. Which floorboards were loose, what hid at the back of certain closets; all of the secrets of the manor were becoming my own. But as the light of understanding enveloped the property one glaring mystery remained: why did we never touch the attic?