The attic air hung thick and dusty, catching in Leo’s throat. He coughed, waving a hand in front of his face as he sifted through a trunk crammed with forgotten memories. This was supposed to be a straightforward decluttering mission, but the silence, broken only by the scrape of wood and the muffled sounds from the street below, was starting to feel… wrong. He unearthed a faded envelope, brittle with age, addressed in his father’s familiar, looping handwriting. "To the Board of Directors," it read. His father, a man who’d worked the same job for nearly forty years. He’d retired, yes, but resigned?
He pulled out the thin, yellowing paper. The words, typed on a manual typewriter, jumped out at him, a staccato of cold professionalism. His father citing "irreconcilable differences." Leo’s fingers tightened on the paper. A wave of goosebumps prickled his arms. He couldn't shake the picture of his father, always so controlled, so certain, hunched over this very letter. Why had he never spoken about this?
Leo carefully refolded the letter and returned it to the envelope. He felt a need to get out of the stuffy space. He quickly slammed the trunk shut and clambered down the pull-down stairs, the attic now feeling far too heavy. He almost ran to the kitchen, seeking the familiarity of the afternoon sun, the smell of his coffee brewing.