The attic smelled like dust and cedar.
Sophie hadn't been up here in years—not since before her mother died, not since the world split into before and after. But something tugged at her now. A quiet nudge. The kind of feeling that whispers, There's something you left behind.
She pushed open the creaky door and climbed the stairs slowly, brushing her fingers along the railing. Light streamed in from the tiny round window, casting everything in gold.
Boxes lined the edges of the room, some half-open, some still taped shut with yellowed labels. Christmas. Baby clothes. Books - College.
She sat on the floor, pulled the nearest box close, and opened it.
Inside were scraps of her mother's handwriting. Grocery lists. Old postcards. A folded paper menu from the cafe where Sophie had her first job. None of it mattered—and yet, all of it did.
She found a cassette tape labeled "Sunday mornings" and held it like a fragile artifact.
Sophie smiled.
That night, she set up the old cassette player on the kitchen counter. It took a few tries, some fiddling with the buttons and a roll of tape to hold the lid closed—but finally, the tape spun.
Static. A cough. Then her mother's voice, singing softly off-key to a 70s song Sophie didn't know the name of.
Jake walked in halfway through and froze.
"Is that... her?"
Sophie nodded, eyes bright.
"She used to play this while baking. Said it made the muffins rise better."
They stood in silence, letting the song fill the space between them. It wasn't sad. Not anymore.
Just full.
They started a new ritual. Sunday mornings with old music and burned muffins. Sophie wore her mother's apron, and Jake danced with the dog they'd adopted from the shelter—an awkward, one-eyed mutt named Lucky who barked at the toaster.
The house didn't feel haunted now. It felt held.
One afternoon, Sophie walked down Main Street alone, stopping at the bookstore where she used to work summers. The owner—Mrs. Kinney, now with even whiter hair—greeted her with a familiar grin.
"I hear you're staying," she said, ringing up a novel Sophie didn't need.
"I think I am."
"Well," Mrs. Kinney said, handing her the bag, "it's about time."
The town began to look different—not because it had changed, but because Sophie had.
She knew now that healing wasn't one big thing. It wasn't dramatic. It was coffee with someone who stayed. The first bloom on a windowsill plant. Forgiving herself for the things she couldn't have known.
One evening, Jake took her hand on the back porch and said, "I found land just outside town. A few acres. Real quiet."
Sophie blinked. "You thinking of building something?"
He nodded. "If I do, I want to build it with you."
She didn't cry.
She smiled.
"Then let's start slow."
And that night, before bed, she wrote just one line in her journal:
I am still becoming. And that is enough.