Rain lashed against the attic window as Arthur sifted through Amelia's things. Sunlight, weak and watery, filtered through dust motes dancing in the air. He found it tucked away in a cedar chest, a faded leather-bound notebook. Inside, meticulously penned in her elegant script, was a list: "See the Northern Lights," "Learn to Tango," "Write a novel." He ran a finger across the ink, a tremor passing through him. The smell of cedar and old paper filled his lungs, a scent that somehow felt both familiar and impossibly distant.
He sank down onto an old trunk, the wood cold against his back. He remembered her, vibrant and full of plans. He pictured her face, the way her eyes would light up when she spoke about the things she wanted to do. The Northern Lights, they'd talked about it, dreaming under the summer stars. He felt a pang, a deep ache he couldn't quite name.
He knew she never saw the Aurora Borealis, never danced the tango. The novel, the one she’d been so sure she could write, remained unfinished in a drawer. He picked up the notebook again, feeling the weight of it in his hands. He wished, with a longing that settled deep in his chest, that he had pushed her to chase after these dreams, helped her more to make them reality.