Rain lashed against the attic window, mirroring the storm brewing inside Maya. She'd told her mother she didn't want to see the old house again. Now, she was here, forced by the reading of the will. The executor had led her up to the dusty attic, promising "memories." Those memories, apparently, included every single piece of homework Maya had ever produced, meticulously filed in faded manila folders. A hot pressure throbbed behind her eyes. Why? What was the point of all this documentation?
She yanked open a folder labeled "Grade 6 - Science Fair." The familiar spiral notebooks, the clumsy diagrams of the solar system, the teacher’s red ink corrections – all of it swam before her. Maya slammed the folder shut, the action echoing in the cavernous space. The air felt thick, heavy, like she was trapped in a suffocating bubble of the past. Her hands clenched into fists, nails digging into her palms.
A sigh escaped her lips as she stumbled back from the shelf, knocking over a stack of old photo albums. Pictures tumbled out, faces of a time that was gone and, apparently, still very much present. She didn't want to see this. Not now. Not ever.