Dawson
I find the attic door in the hall of the second floor, tucked just outside Grace’s bedroom. The string dangles low from the ceiling, frayed at the end from years of use, fibers split and fuzzy where countless hands have tugged it down. I tug at it, and the door creaks open with a reluctant groan before the ladder drops down into place.
I test the first step by pressing my weight into it, just to make sure it’s sturdy enough. Falling from a ladder isn’t on my to‑do list today either. The wood flexes beneath my boots but holds, so I climb, each rung cold beneath my palms as I make my way up.
The air shifts the moment I push up into the attic—dry, stale, tinged with dust and something faintly sweet, like old pine needles that never fully lost their scent. My boots scuff against the
