Rain hammered against the attic window, mirroring the drumming in Eleanor’s chest. The air was thick with dust motes dancing in the single shaft of sunlight slicing through the gloom. She hadn’t been up here in years, not since… well, not since it all went wrong. Now, she rifled through a trunk, her knuckles bone-white as she pulled out a manila envelope. Inside, a single sheet of paper. Her father’s familiar, looping handwriting. A letter of resignation. Dated 1987. She felt a prickle of unease crawl up her spine.
Her breath hitched. She traced the words with a trembling finger, the ink faded but legible. “I can no longer in good conscience…” it began, trailing off mid-sentence. What had he meant? Why had he quit? The questions slammed into her, hard and fast. She had always believed his departure from the firm was amicable. A better opportunity. But this… this felt different.
The attic door creaked open below. Her stomach lurched. Her sister, Sarah, was calling up the stairs, asking if she was alright. Eleanor quickly stuffed the letter back into the envelope, her movements frantic. "Fine!" she yelled back, her voice too loud. Too sharp. She needed to get out of here.