The attic air hung thick and dusty, catching in Eleanor's throat. She coughed, the sound swallowed by the silence. Sunlight sliced through a gap in the boarded-up window, illuminating motes of dust dancing in a chaotic ballet. She tugged at the cardboard box again, nails scraping, breath coming in shallow gasps. Inside, nestled amongst moth-eaten shawls and forgotten photo albums, was a small, worn leather-bound book. Her mother’s handwriting. The sheer illegibility of it sent a cold shiver down her spine.
It was a list. Bucket List, scrawled across the top. Beneath, in spidery ink, were things she’d never known her mother had dreamed of. *Learn to tango. Visit the Galapagos Islands. Ride a hot air balloon.* Eleanor choked back a sob, the room tilting precariously. Her vision blurred, the words swimming before her eyes. She slammed the book shut, the sound echoing in the silent room.
She ripped the cover open again, fingers trembling. *Sing karaoke. See a Broadway show. Eat authentic Italian pasta in Italy.* Eleanor felt a strange pressure building in her chest, a pressure that threatened to explode. She crumpled to the floor, the list clutched to her chest, the scent of aged paper and regret filling her lungs.