I shouldn't have opened it.
I know that now.
But when the shadow stood at the bottom of the stairs, unmoving, and Mama's voice didn't come for two days, something inside me broke.
A crack. A question. A hunger.
For answers.For escape.For truth.
I waited until the shadows grew long.
The attic was quiet.
No knocks. No tray. No Mama.
I took the key from under the pillow.
Not a real key — a rusted screwdriver I found in the corner once and hid, even from her.
I pried open the hatch, the same hatch she always opened for me. It was heavier than I thought.
The stairs groaned under my feet.
Like the house was waking up.
Every step downward was louder than thunder.
Each one shouted:You're breaking Rule One.
But I kept going.
There were cobwebs. Dust. Cold air.
And at the bottom of the stairs…
The door.
It was white. Old. Paint peeling.
I reached for the handle.
My hand trembled.
I thought I'd hear her voice — Lucas! Stop! Go back!
But there was nothing.
Only the sound of my heartbeat.
I turned the knob.
It clicked.
And opened.
The hallway beyond was dark.
No light. No windows. Only the smell of wet wood and something else… something familiar.
Like burned paper.
Like smoke.
I stepped in.
My feet touched carpet.
Soft.
Warm.
Almost… wet.
I looked down.
Dark spots. Red-brown.
Not paint.
Stains.
At the end of the hallway was a door slightly open.
Inside, a flickering light.
Like a candle.
I walked.
I shouldn't have.
But I did.
And inside that room…
I found a wall covered in photographs.
Faces.
Dozens.
Some blurred.
Some scratched out.
But in the center — me.
Smiling.
Younger.
Clean. Happy.
With two people beside me.
A woman and a man.
Holding me.
Parents.
And written beneath it, in red marker:
"Burned. Replaced. Forgotten."
I turned around.
And she was there.
Mama.
But she wasn't smiling.
She wasn't crying.
She was holding something behind her back.