The humid air of the attic pressed against Elias, sticking his shirt to his back. He ran a hand through his hair, dislodging dust motes that danced in the single ray of sunlight slicing through a crack in the boarded-up window. He’d agreed to this, to help Finn sort through his grandmother’s belongings, but now, surrounded by forgotten relics, he felt a strange sense of suffocation.
“Remember this?” Finn’s voice broke through the silence, and Elias turned to see him holding up a chipped porcelain doll. It was the same doll they'd “rescued” from the old, abandoned house.
Elias squinted. "Yeah, I remember." He swallowed hard. The attic seemed to shrink, closing in on him.
“You remember how scared we were?” Finn chuckled, but Elias felt a knot tighten in his stomach. He remembered something, yes, but it wasn't fear. It was the thrill. The pure, unadulterated joy of breaking into a place they shouldn't have been. He tried to remember Finn’s reaction to the doll being found, but it felt muddled. A thick, confusing fog.
"I thought it was the best thing we'd ever done," Elias said, the words feeling alien in his own mouth. He pushed himself off the trunk he'd been leaning against, suddenly wanting out. He had to get out.