The attic air tasted of dust and forgotten things. Rain lashed against the window, a mirroring of the storm inside her. Amelia hadn't been up here since her mother’s passing, the box of old report cards a cold invitation. Each paper, meticulously preserved, was a fresh stab. Her mother had held onto everything – spelling tests, art projects, even a crumpled, stained Valentine’s Day card. Tears blurred the lines of her mother's neat, looping handwriting scrawled across the top of a history assignment: “My brilliant girl.” Her chest felt like a vise was tightening.
She sank to the floor, surrounded by the ghosts of her childhood. The musty scent of the room, once so familiar, now felt suffocating. A wave of dizziness washed over her. She gripped the edge of the box, knuckles white, forcing herself to breathe. It felt as if her heart was a trapped bird, beating frantically against her ribs.
The ache in her jaw was a dull throb, a physical manifestation of the hollowness she felt. She reached for the next paper, her fingers trembling. This time, it was a math test, the score circled in red with a sticker of a happy face. She remembered feeling so proud that day. Why hadn't she told her mother? Why hadn't she cherished her more?