The attic air hung thick and dusty, catching in Leo’s throat. He'd been expecting old photo albums, maybe a few forgotten trinkets. Instead, rows and rows of carefully labeled boxes stretched into the gloom. He pried open the first one, the cardboard groaning in protest. Inside, neatly stacked, were his kindergarten worksheets: crudely drawn pictures of stick figures and suns, labeled with his five-year-old scrawl. A wave of heat flushed over him. He felt suddenly unsteady on his feet. He sank onto a nearby trunk, his breath catching in his chest.
He reached for a crumpled drawing of a monster, colored in vibrant, mismatched crayons. His monster. He remembered that day, the pride he’d felt. Now, the memory felt…wrong. He could almost feel his mother’s hand hovering over him, guiding the crayon. He imagined her, meticulously preserving each creation, each imperfection. A tremor ran through him.
He cleared his throat, trying to regain some composure. He forced himself to sift through the box, each familiar page a fresh blow. His high school essays, meticulously graded and corrected. His college applications, the painstakingly crafted personal statements. He felt a profound disorientation, a blurring of lines between his past and his present. He wondered what else he didn't know.