The attic air tasted of dust and forgotten things. Rain lashed against the small window, a relentless drumming that echoed the frantic beat in Leo's chest. He'd been expecting a box of old photographs, maybe a love letter or two. Instead, his fingers brushed against a worn, leather-bound notebook – his mother's handwriting scrawled on the cover: “Bucket List.” He flipped it open, each entry a stab of something… unsettling. First, “See the Northern Lights.” Then, “Learn to play the ukulele.” He closed the book quickly, the image of his mother, vibrant and alive, a stark contrast to the quiet stillness of death, settling uncomfortably in his mind.
He went to his mother's old workshop. The wood still smelled faintly of her favorite cedar. He picked up a worn paintbrush, the handle warm and familiar, a phantom echo of her touch. A sudden gust of wind rattled the window, and he dropped the brush with a clatter, a jolt of alarm shooting up his spine. The silence that followed was thick, heavy, pressing down on him.
Later, he found himself staring at a framed photograph of his mother, her smile dazzling against the backdrop of a tropical beach. He couldn't shake the feeling that she was looking at him, that she expected something. He felt a deep, unfamiliar disquiet. He grabbed his coat and hurried from the house, the chill night air doing little to soothe the growing unease.