Rain hammered against the attic window, mirroring the relentless drumming in Eleanor’s head. She’d promised herself she’d sort through her mother’s things today, a task she’d been putting off for months. Now, surrounded by moth-eaten furs and forgotten toys, she felt a heavy, leaden weight in her chest.
Dust motes danced in the single ray of sunlight that pierced the gloom. She coughed, the air thick with the scent of dried roses and something else, something metallic and sharp, like old blood.
She stumbled upon a box labeled "Miscellaneous - 1980s." Inside, nestled amongst Christmas cards and yellowed photographs, was a typed letter. It was addressed to "Mr. Harding, Personnel Manager," and signed, with a shaky hand, “Margaret Davies.” It was a resignation letter.
Eleanor sank onto a crate, the paper trembling in her grasp. Her mother had never spoken of quitting her job at the bank. The woman she knew was tireless, dedicated, and never complained, except, perhaps, about Eleanor's own, perceived failures. The words on the page revealed a different woman, one burdened by something Eleanor could not comprehend. Her eyes burned as she read of "unbearable pressures," of a need to "prioritize well-being."